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THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 
OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 


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Modern  Library. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 


By    W.    L.   GEORGE 

With  an   Introduction   by 

ED  GAR    SALTUS 


BOhlANDLIVEBIGHTtas 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  BONI  &  LIVERIGHT, 


Printed  in  the  Untied  States  of  America 


INTRODUCTION 

At  the  Author's  Club  in  London,  just  before  the  deluge, 
I  asked  concerning  the  writer  of  this  book.  "He  is  a 
Pole,"  a  member  told  me.  "Though,"  he  added,  "per- 
haps I  am  thinking  of  Conrad."  Perhaps  he  was.  In  any 
event  that  is  all  I  know  about  Mr.  George,  except  that 
he  is  one  of  the  few  great  novelists  of  our  day.  Gener- 
ally, the  sunetoi,  the  cognoscenti,  the  people  on  whose 
judgment  one  may  rely,  do  not  confuse  him,  as  my  friend 
did,  with  Conrad,  but  they  put  him  on  the  same  plane. 

That  plane  is  very  high.  It  is  a  plane  sparsely  in- 
habited, quite  polar,  on  which  luminously  the  aurora 
plays.  You  will  not  find  Mr.  Caine  there,  or  Miss 
Corelli,  or  Mr.  Oppenheim,  or  any  of  the  famous  authors 
who  know  so  well  how  to  make  every  subject  uninterest- 
ing. But  George  Moore  has  resided  there.  It  is  there 
that  Mackensie  wrote  Sinister  Street  and  Hichens  wrote 
Flames.  It  is  there  that  A  Bed  of  Roses  was  made. 

When  'this  novel  first  appeared  it  annoyed  England,  it 
annoyed  too  the  United  States.  England  is  the  most 
hypocritical  country  in  Europe.  Fortunately  we  are  not 
slackers.  The  United  States  is  the  most  hypocritical 
land  in  the  world.  But  the  annoyance  which  the  book 
induced,  resulted  in  continuous  editions.  I  know  of  noth- 
ing else  against  it. 

Thirty  years  ago,  Edmond  de  Goncourt  produced  La 
Fille  Elisa.  It  is  the  story  of  a  harlot.  Two  thousand 
years  before  it  appeared,  the  Sosi  Brothers  of  Rome — 
the  first  publishers  with  whom  I  have  any  acquaintance — 
produced  Mcecha,  a  story  of  the  same  kind.  From  then 
on,  down  to  a  date  relatively  recent,  similar  novels  ap- 
peared. Except  in  Paris,  Rotterdam  and  the  Orient, 

2O5&169 


ii  INTRODUCTION 

they  are  unobtainable  to-day.  Even  otherwise,  only  per- 
sons such  as  Krafft-Ebing  diagnosed  could  read  them 
now.  There  is  nothing  duller  than  an  immoral  book. 

Climates  have  altered,  customs  with  them,  the  sky  itself 
has  changed.  Formerly,  prelates  employed  in  the  pulpit 
language  which  to-day  a  coster  would  avoid.  Similarly 
ink  has  acquired  a  lexical  refinement  which  previously  it 
lacked.  Anglo-Saxony  has,  in  forcing  the  note,  developed 
an  interesting  case  of  self-consciousness.  Yet,  synchron- 
ising with  it,  is  an  understanding  of  values  which  every 
artist  now  possesses  and  which  Mr.  George  displays. 
A  Bed  of  Roses  is  also  the  story  of  a  harlot.  But  the 
thorn  is  the  rose's  duenna  and  in  this  book  it  pricks. 

Earlier  writers  distilled  attar.  There  is  no  perfumery 
here,  merely  the  mental  abrasion  that  comes  from  the 
picture  of  an  honest  woman  trying  as  best  she  may  to 
earn  her  bread  and  finding  that  she  must  choose  between 
the  street  and  *the  river.  One  should  never  judge  any- 
body, but  one  may  and  should  pity  and  there  is  the  prick. 

Novel  readers  generally,  and  generally  novel  readers 
are  women,  object  to  being  pricked,  though  what  they 
do  not  object  to  depends  on  their  appearance,  their  color- 
ing and  their  size.  The  tastes  of  the  blonde  are  not  those 
of  the  brunette.  Pretty  women  do  not  care  for  provender 
that  their  plainer  sisters  relish.  A  nicely  freckled  girl 
will  devour  rubbish  which  a  spectacled  virgin  would  not 
look  at.  Fat  women  have  preferences  which  thin  women 
do  not  share. 

Men  are  different.  Women  who  disagree  about  every- 
thing else,  agree  on  that.  For  men,  some  men  at  least, 
have  a  habit,  certainly  abnormal,  of  thinking  while  they 
read.  No  womanly  woman  ever  does  that,  though  su- 
perior women  not  only  think  while  they  read,  but  talk 
at  the  same  time.  Personally,  I  have  had  the  privilege 
of  knowing  women  who  not  only  read  and  talked  at  the 
same  time  but  who  wrote  as  well. 

As  well,  yes,  though  perhaps  not  well,  and  so  much 
the  better  for  them.  The  art  of  writing  well  has  few 
exponents  and  no  demand.  Popularity  never  annoys  any- 
one misguided  enough  to  employ  it.  But  there  are  women 


INTRODUCTION  iii 

who  like  that  sort  of  thing.  There  are  others  who  do 
not.  These  also  must  be  considered.  They  form  femin- 
ity's two  great  branches,  the  foolish  and  the  wise. 

That  clever  women  like  clever  books  and  silly  women 
stupid  ones,  is  probably  self-evident.  In  addition,  one 
hardly  needs  the  higher  mathematics  to  show  that  a 
woman  who  is  not  clever  must  be  the  reverse,  nor  yet 
that  a  story  which  can  please  both  the  foolish  and  the 
wise  must  be — not  a  masterpiece;  a  masterpiece  is  a 
work  that  seems  easy  to  write  but  which  no  one  can 
duplicate  and  which  no  publisher  wants — but  a  book  torn 
from  the  vitals  of  life. 

Life  is  not  made  up  of  platitudes,  slang,  mock  heroics 
and  bad  grammar.  Such  things  are,  particularly  in  the 
magazines.  But  elsewhere  the  pilgrim  may  encounter 
greed,  apprehension,  fervor,  hate,  passion  and  despair. 
To  experience  these  emotions  is  human;  to  portray  them 
is  art. 

Art  itself  is  insufficient.  Art  in  literature  is  handsomely 
bound  and  never  read.  In  addition  to  art,  there  must 
be  sympathy.  Nous  aurons  des  larmes,  as  George  Moore 
somewhere  expressed  it. 

But  the  gift  of  tears  is  not  found  in  every  novelist's 
inkstand,  nor  is  it  every  reader  to  whom  it  appeals.  In- 
stead of  weeping  with  the  author,  the  reader  may  yawn. 
For  here  again  tastes  differ.  The  novel  that  will  bore 
one  lady  to  death  may  incite  another  to  live  and  write 
a  worse  one.  The  obituary  notices  that  publishers  print 
teem  with  just  such  instances.  It  is  becoming  increas- 
ingly difficult  to  consider  any  of  their  catalogues  and  not 
scrawl  on  them  Hie  jacet.  That  is  because,  however 
ample  the  catalogue,  the  index  omits  a  criterion.  There 
is  no  way  of  telling  what  will  tonify  and  what  will 
fatigue. 

None  the  less  a  criterion  there  is;  a  criterion  poor 
indeed  and  perhaps  not  entirely  my  own,  yet  still  a  cri- 
terion. The  novel  that  can  make  a  woman  abominate 
people  whom  she  has  never  encountered,  love  others 
whom  she  shall  never  see,  and  mourn  those  that  cannot 
die,  the  novel  that  can  do  that  will  please  any  woman 


iv  INTRODUCTION 

whether  blonde  or  brunette,  stout  or  slim,  freckled  or 
spectacled,  stupid  or  clever.    It  will  please  because  it  is 
a  work  of  genius,  for  it  is  genius  alone  that  can  knock 
at  every  heart. 
That,  I  think,  is  what  Mr.  George  has  done. 

EDGAR  SALTUS. 


A  PREFACE 

Which  the  Author  would  like  You  to  Read 

I  KNOW  that  it  is  customary  not  to  read  prefaces;  I 
generally  skip  them  myself,  for  I  do  not  see  why  I  should 
read  through  the  opinions  of  another  man  before  I  have 
formed  my  own;  to  read  a  preface  after  one  has  finished 
the  book  is  quite  another  matter,  for  one  then  takes  part 
in  a  kind  of  debate.  But  this  particular  preface  is  not 
in  the  ordinary  class;  I  find  it  necessary  because  the 
book  you  are  about  to  read  has  been  attacked,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  misunderstood,  and  because  I  do  not  want  it 
said  that  I  shirked  the  opportunity  offered  me  by  a  new 
edition  to  make  clear  my  meaning  and  my  aims. 

This  is  not  an  apologia,  so  do  not  think  that  qui 
s'excuse  s'accuse.  I  am  in  no  wise  ashamed  of  A  Bed 
0}  Roses,  and  I  am  glad  to  think  that  out  of  the  forty 
odd  reviews  I  have  received,  no  more  than  three  were 
definitely  hostile;  of  the  others,  five  or  six  seemed  to- 
reserve  judgment,  but  the  great  majority,  some  eighty 
per  cent.,  fully  recognised  my  object  in  writing  the  book, 
I  am  replying,  therefore,  to  a  minority,  and  I  am  replying 
in  advance  to  criticisms  which  may  be  levied  at  me  when 
this  edition  comes  into  your  hands;  I  am  also  trying  to 
forestall  misconceptions  which  might  arise  if  the  book 
were  not  taken  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  written.  It 
may  be  urged  that  a  book  which  needs  explanation  is  a 
bad  book:  it  may  be  bad  from  a  literary  point  of  view, 
and  I  am  not  on  my  defence  so  far  as  that  is  concerned, 
but  it  is  not  bad  from  a  moral  point  of  view.  My  literary 
merits  must  be  adjudicated  upon  by  others,  but  my  moral 
outlook  I  feel  entitled  to  defend. 


vi  A    PREFACE 

It  has  been  suggested  that  "the  sordid  realism  of  this 
book  will  excite  a  feeling  of  disgust"  among  my  readers. 
I  plead  guilty;  I  am  quite  ready  to  excite  feelings  of 
disgust  provided  they  take  their  origin  in  the  social  state, 
provided  that  after  reading  this  book  you  feel  able  to 
say:  "Our  treatment  of  women  is  a  disgusting  thing." 
That  is  what  I  want;  I  am  a  rebel,  and  I  want  you  to  be 
rebels  too,  to  say  and  to  clamour  forth  that  a  state  of 
society  where  it  may  profit  a  woman  better  to  be  a  cour- 
tesan than  a  wage-earner  is  an  abominable  state.  The 
people  who  say  that  the  book  is  disgusting,  when  they 
know  very  well  that  it  is  Society  is  disgusting,  are  the 
people  who,  bound  together  in  a  league  of  silence  and  sup- 
pression, are  maintaining  a  state  of  things  against  which 
I  war.  They  call  themselves  moralists,  but  they  are 
immoralists,  for  they  allow  evil  to  flourish  without  pro- 
test; the  evil  and  the  ugly  disappear  when  exposed,  they 
are  things  that  shine  best  in  dark  places;  thus  the  people 
who  refuse  to  allow  light  to  be  shed  upon  the  life  of  the 
courtesan,  upon  the  factors  that  make  her  a  courtesan, 
are  maintaining  the  conditions  which  are  every  day  cre- 
ating yet  more  courtesans.  All  this  is  so  simple  that  it 
hardly  seems  worth  printing,  but  then  there  are  more 
stupid  people  in  the  world  than  most  of  us  think. 

One  reviewer  said  that  I  "do  not  realise  the  divinity 
of  sex."  Now  what  is  the  divinity  of  sex?  I  really  don't 
know;  one  might  as  well  talk  of  the  divinity  of  digestion, 
or  of  the  divinity  of  being  able  to  put  one's  boots  on. 
Sex  is  neither  more  nor  less  divine  than  anything  else. 
I  quote  this  sentence  merely  as  an  instance  of  the  loose 
writing  which,  garbed  as  criticism,  is  accepted  as  serious. 
"Loose  writing,"  says  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett,  "means  wooden 
thinking,"  a  most  illuminating  and  appropriate  remark. 

A  far  more  dangerous  suggestion  was  made  by  a  high- 
class  paper.  I  was  charged  with  having  held  out  "a  lure 
to  the  sensuality  of  my  readers,"  with  "prostituting  my 
literary  talent,  presumably  with  the  object  of  making 
money."  Now,  if  that  were  true,  I  ought  to  be  hunted 
out  of  literature,  for  I  would  have  fouled  the  thing  which 
has  most  pretentions  to  holiness,  namely  art.  But  it  is 


A    PREFACE  vii 

not  true,  and  the  evidence  can  easily  be  found;  it  is  not 
true  because  pornography  does  not  pay.  I  know  that 
there  are  a  few  writers  who,  by  means  of  a  heated  atmo- 
sphere, generally  extra-European,  of  hysterical  heroines 
and  Baudelarian  heroes,  achieve  a  fair  vogue  ...  on 
the  bookstalls;  they  make  money,  but  I  know  and  every- 
body ought  to  know  that  the  books  which  make  the  most 
money  are  not  sensuous.  The  books  that  sell  are  senti- 
mental; they  are  full  of  religious  and  moral  views,  of 
heroic  self-sacrifices,  of  perfect  people;  no  sensual  riot 
has  ever  sold  so  well  as  tearful  love  in  a  Marcus  Stone 
garden.  There  are  scores  of  instances  among  the  novels 
published  of  late  years;  there  is  The  Cardinal's  Snuffbox, 
of  which  175,000  were  sold;  there  are  the  novels  of  Mrs. 
Barclay,  sale  over  1,000,000;  there  are  the  5,000,000 
sales  of  Mrs.  Henry  Wood  and  Mr.  Nat  Gould.  Those 
figures  I  will  never  reach.  Take  the  "best  sellers"  of  to- 
day, Miss  Marie  Corelli,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  Mr. 
Charles  Garvice:  they  could  be  given  as  prizes  in  a  Sunday 
School. 

I  must  not  quote  the  names  of  the  writers  whom  I 
consider  salacious,  but  they  will  occur  to  you.  They  sell 
very  well  at  a  shilling,  but  consider  that,  to  carry  the 
same  royalties,  an  author  must  sell  about  seven  times  as 
many  copies  at  a  shilling  as  he  must  sell  at  four  and  six; 
now  the  salacious  writers  do  not  sell  anything  approach- 
ing 400,000  copies  at  four  and  six;  few  of  them  sell  as 
much  as  20,000.  They  cannot,  therefore,  compete  with 
the  sentimental  writers,  who  easily  sell  twice  or  three 
times  that  figure.  I  did  not  write  A  Bed  of  Roses  to 
make  money;  if  I  had  wanted  to  make  money  I  should 
have  tried  to  write  another  Under  Two  Flags  or  an  East 
Lynne.  I  wrote  A  Bed  of  Roses  because  I  had  to,  be- 
cause the  idea  of  it  had  been  burning  in  me  for  years, 
because  to  write  it  meant  that  I  was  expressing  myself. 
I  should  like  to  say,  in  passing,  that  I  did  not  make  much 
money;  having  been  banned  by  the  libraries  I  lost  over 
half  my  total  sale.  Nobody  can  say  that  I  received  the 
wages  of  sin. 

I  want,  however,  to  push  this  further.    I  think  I  have 


viii  A    PREFACE 

made  it  clear  that  I  have  not  "prostituted  my  talent,"  to 
make  money.  I  now  want  to  show  that  A  Bed  of  Roses 
is  not  a  salacious  book.  I  do  not  deny  that  it  is  out- 
spoken, that  it  makes  no  effort  to  conceal  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  sexual  desire  and  that  the  scenes  in  which 
sex  plays  a  part  are  written  in  -a  vein  which  prevents 
anybody  from  missing  them.  Well,  I  don't  want  you  to 
miss  them.  There  is  not  one  of  them  that  does  not  occur 
a  hundred  times  a  day  in  the  houses,  shops,  streets  and 
parks  of  this  country;  I  have  told  the  truth  as  I  see  it, 
perhaps  even  I  have  not  told  it  all.  But  the  little  I 
have  told  is  dubbed  "unhealthy,"  "unwholesome",  ''un- 
necessary," by  those  whose  mind  is  in  such  a  condition 
that  everything  connected  with  sex  becomes  salacious;  they 
are  the  kind  of  people  whom  you  may  see  any  day  at  the 
National  Gallery,  squinting  at  the  nude;  they  would 
leer  at  the  Venus  of  Milo,  and  point  a  jocular  finger  at 
the  slender  drapery  of  a  Tanagra.  Now  it  is  a  curious 
but  true  thing  that  words  alone  have  no  personality; 
set  together  in  sentences  and  informed  by  the  brain  oi 
the  writer  they  may  paint  pictures  that  make  one  giggle, 
or  pictures  that  make  one  weep.  I  do  not  think  that  you 
will,  in  this  book,  find  anything  to  make  you  giggle.  It 
is,  as  I  feel  it,  one  long  cry:  "Oh,  the  pity  of  all  of  this! 
Behold  all  this  youth,  this  beauty  and  this  grace,  and  see 
what  Society  is  making  of  them!  See  how  low  it  makes 
that  which  might  be  splendid!" 

In  a  review  which  is  quoted  in  the  special  pages,  Mr. 
James  Douglas  pays  me  the  compliment  of  saying  that 
"I  am  not  prurient  or  nasty,"  and  his  opinion  does  not 
stand  alone.  In  this  book  I  have  told  as  drily,  as  harshly 
and  as  coldly  as  I  can,  the  career  of  a  woman  unfitted 
for  skilled  work  by  her  lack  of  training,  shown  how  she 
was  driven  into  the  ranks  of  the  courtesans,  how  the  base- 
ness of  her  new  life  led  her  to  a  success  of  which  the  old 
"honest  life"  held  forth  no  hope.  You  will  find  more 
theory  than  love-making  in  this  book — unless  you  are  of 
those  who  sit  down  before  it  and  pick  out  the  love-making. 

So  much,  then,  for  those  whom  I  must  call  the  low- 
minded.  There  are  others,  however,  whose  criticism  was 


A  PREFACE  ix 

more  cogent;  they  understood  my  intention  but  made 
against  me  the  perfectly  reasonable  charge  that  I  was 
merely  destructive;  one,  notably,  complained  that  I  "Draw 
no  lesson  from  the  life  into  which  the  hard-headed  Vic- 
toria Fulton  is  forced" — that  I  do  not  "show  in  any  satis- 
factory fashion  that  any  Nemesis  overtakes  her  for  yield- 
ing to  circumstances."  There  is  a  double  demand  in  this 
criticism;  the  one  is  that  I  should  show  how  we  may 
arrest  the  creation  of  Victoria  Fultons,  the  other  that  I 
should  show  that  she  suffered  because  she  became  a  cour- 
tesan. Well,  I  do  not  think  it  is  the  place  of  a  literary 
artist  to  draw  a  moral  from  his  own  story.  He  must  tell 
it  as  well  as  he  can,  as  truthfully  as  possible  show  how 
certain  effects  follow  on  certain  causes,  but  I  do  not  be- 
lieve he  must  stand  forth  as  a  preacher,  tell  his  readers 
what  they  ought  to  think.  There  are  not  many  writers 
of  note  who  have  ventured  to  moralise,  except  Tolstoi, 
or  to  build,  except  perhaps  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  and  the 
former  moralised  solely  on  a  Christian  basis,  while  the 
latter  builds  in  so  shadowy  a  fashion  that  it  may  be  more 
correct  to  say  that  he  stimulates. 

To  stimulate,  that  is  in  my  opinion  the  part  a  novel 
such  as  A  Bed  of  Roses  should  play.  I  have  not  in  my 
pocket  the  history  of  the  next  twenty  generations;  I  may 
have  intimations  of  the  future  in  my  mind,  but  I  cannot 
tell  you  exactly  how  the  world  must  be  organised  if  men 
are  to  cease  to  desire  Victoria  Fultons,  and  if  Victoria 
Fultons  are  no  longer  to  come  forward.  I  merely  want 
to  state  the  problem,  to  leave  it  to  you,  the  many  and 
the  growing,  to  agitate  it  in  your  minds;  I  indicate  that 
I  think  the  problem  economic,  say  in  varying  words  that 
Victoria's  class  must  endure  so  long  as  there  is  not  for 
every  man  and  every  woman  regular  work,  properly 
paid,  fitted  to  strength  and  ability.  That  may  mean 
Socialism,  or  Anarchism  and  voluntary  organisation,  or 
extreme  individual  Radicalism,  subject  to  Protection  and 
limitation  of  the  birth  rate.  It  may  mean — what  you 
think  it  means,  and  that  sentence  is  my  case,  for  my  main 
object  is  to  drag  prostitution  out  of  its  dark  corner,  to 
make  you  understand  how  it  comes  about,  to  make  you 


x  A    PREFACE 

talk  about  it  if  you  already  understand  it;  for  I  have 
enough  faith  in  my  fellow-man  to  believe  that  when  he 
understands  it  he  won't  stand  it.  I  have  not,  as  Mr. 
Hyndman  said  to  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  a  Socialistic  nook  for 
every  bottle-washer.*  I  want  to  open  a  debate. 

But  my  reasonable  critic  asks  more  of  me;  he  asks 
that  I  should  show  that  Victoria  failed,  was  "overtaken 
by  Nemesis."  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  help  him;  "she  did  not 
fail.  She  lived  an  "evil"  life  and  flourished,  and  I  do  not 
see  why  anybody  should  be  surprised,  for  there  are 
plenty  of  financiers,  lawyers,  soldiers,  tinkers,  tailors  and 
politicians,  who  flourish  exceedingly  in  spite  of  the  "evil" 
lives  they  lead.  This  critic  assumes  that  a  courtesan 
must  fail  because  the  majority  of  novels  dealing  with 
courtesans  cause  them  to  die  in  wretched  poverty,  gen- 
erally in  hospital;  he  thinks  I  ought  to  have  written 
A  London  Girl  over  again,  but  I  venture  to  claim  the 
right  to  end  up  my  story  as  I  like.  There  may  be  a  dif- 
ference of  opinion  as  to  what  success  means,  but  in  the 
economic  sphere  it  means  money  and  nothing  else.  In 
a  competitive  and  capitalistic  world  gold  can  hardly  be 
bought  too  dear,  and  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  be  com- 
pelled to  ruin  my  heroine  at  the  end  because  she  was 
a  courtesan,  while  I  should  be  allowed  to  give  her  the 
hand  of  a  peer,  with  his  fortune  inside,  if  she  had  been 
a  shop  girl,  or  had  waited  for  a  husband  in  her  fatRer's 
home  at  Brixton. 

This  brings  me  to  the  last  part  of  this  preface.  It  has 
been  said,  in  general  fashion  that  A  Bed  of  Roses  is  so 
written  to  encourage  young  women  to  adopt  prostitution 
as  a  profession.  This  has  not  been  said  generally,  it  has 
not  been  said  in  the  Press,  it  has  not  been  said  in  many 
letters  I  have  received,  but  it  has  been  said  by  some 
people.  They  have  gone  so  far  as  to  suggest  that  I  view 
with  equanimity  the  existence  of  prostitution  and  look 
upon  it  as  a  creditable  career.  It  is  because  of  those  re- 
marks I  write  this  preface.  I  challenge  the  most  squeam- 
ish to  read  through  A  Bed  of  Roses  and  discover  a  single 


*  See  the  St.  James's  Hall  debate. 


A   PREFACE  xi 

line  where  I  do  not  put  forward  prostitution  as  an  abom- 
inable thing;  I  show,  especially  in  those  chapters  where 
several  courtesans  figure,  the  dangers  of  the  trade,  murder, 
disease,  degeneration  by  drink,  poverty;  I  show  how  cour- 
tesans are  hunted  by  the  bullies  who  prey  upon  them, 
how  little  the  police  can  protect  them  if  they  want  to. 
My  heroine  succeeds,  yes,  but  that  is  the  irony  of  the 
book;  for  one  courtesan  who  succeeds  there  are  a  score 
who  die  in  hospitals,  mad-houses  and  homes  for  inebri- 
ates; everybody  knows  that,  but  everybody  does  not 
know  that  some  of  these  women  succeed,  marry,  have 
children  and  live  out  perfectly  normal  lives.  There  are 
hazards  in  this  dangerous  trade,  but  there  are  hazards 
in  mining,  glazing  with  lead  «jid  the  making  of  phos- 
phorus matches. 

I  do  not  recommend  prostitution  as  a  career.  None 
but  the  most  beautiful  women  are  fitted  for  it,  and  then 
they  must  have  hearts  of  flint,  the  insensibility  of  a  sur- 
geon, the  rapacity  of  a  usurer.  As  a  rule  they  go  down 
in  the  struggle,  for  they  generally  lack  these  qualities; 
they  are  mostly  simple  girls  whose  careers  have  been 
made  for  them  by  an  initial  mistake,  who  have  been  se- 
duced and  hunted  out  of  their  class;  they  are  often  the 
gentlest,  the  most  generous  of  their  sex,  and  when  they 
are  hard  it  is  because  the  hand  of  every  man  and  of 
every  woman  has  been  against  them.  Therefore  they 
fail,  for  in  that  profession  there  is  no  room  for  human 
sympathy,  or  very  little.  It  needs  a  super-woman,  such 
as  Victoria,  to  dominate  her  own  destiny.  That  is  why 
I  thought  it  wrong  to  show  that  she  became  degraded 
in  mind,  coarse  or  cruel;  she  did  not,  for  she  was  in- 
vincibly hard  to  herself,  her  eyes  were  open.  Now  all 
this  is  clearly  stated,  stated  over  and  over  again;  it  can- 
not be  said  that  the  life  I  paint,  a  life  of  isolation,  out- 
rage and  abasement,  can  be  a  temptation  to  any  woman. 
If  I  had  been  sentimental,  if  I  had  surrounded  my  cour- 
tesan with  the  foolish  glamour  of  la  Dame  aux  Camelias, 
pretended  she  remained  a  "lady,"  honoured  and  appreci- 
ated by  men,  treated  by  them  as  an  equal,  I  might  have 
written  a  dangerous  book.  But  I  did  not:  the  career 


xii  A    PREFACE 

of  Victoria  is  about  as  unromantic  as  that  of  a  successful 
manufacturer  of  blacking. 

The  one  thing  that  matters  in  Victoria's  career  is 
the  opposition  between  her  failure  in  "honest"  labour, 
and  her  success  in  the  pursuit  of  "vice."  I  have  said  al- 
ready that  I  had  rather  a  woman  took  her  chances  in 
"honest  labour"  however  small  these  may  be,  for  I  do  not 
believe  that  any  but  very  strong  women  can  survive  the 
other  life;  I  have  another  reason,  and  that  is  a  purely 
personal  one:  I  look  upon  love  as  the  one  thing  which 
matters  in  the  world,  the  one  thing  which  can  inflame  us 
into  artistic  creation,  into  heroism,  as  the  first  and  last 
pleasure,  the  root  of  happiness  and  the  source  of  every 
ambition  and  economic  activity.  Believing  this,  I  must 
look  upon  prostitution  as  sacrilege.  It  mocks  the  sacred 
thing.  With  this  in  my  mind  you  must  realise  with  what 
horror  I  view  social  conditions  which,  in  my  opinion, 
automatically  drive  splendid  potential  lovers  into  a  trade 
of  mummery.  That  is  why  I  chose  a  woman  such  as 
Victoria  Fulton,  young,  beautiful,  penniless,  friendless 
and  unskilled;  and  that  is  why  I  set  her  at  unskilled 
trades,  where  she  was  open  to  the  insults  which  are,  to 
my  knowledge,  levelled  every  day  at  the  women  em- 
ployed in  them. 

"Honest"  labour  among  women  is  the  direct  purveyor 
of  prostitutes.  The  wages  earned  by  woman  are  notori- 
ously so  low  that  they  do  not  afford  her  more  than  a 
bare  living:  I  am  not  speaking  of  girls  who  leave  their 
fathers'  houses  every  day  to  earn  pocket-money,  but  of 
the  young  women  who  are  trying  to  keep  themselves  on 
twelve  to  sixteen  shillings  a  week,  waitresses,  seamstresses, 
tailoresses,  day-servants,  of  the  shopgirls  who  "live  in," 
and  whose  food  is  so  inadequate  that  most  of  their 
small  wages  go  towards  supplementing  it.  Those  women 
live  perpetually  on  the  edge  of  poverty,  of  starvation; 
disease,  unemployment,  accident  leave  them  hopelessly 
in  debt,  perpetually  oppress  them.  They  live  under  the 
sword.  But  I  go  further;  I  do  not  believe  that  it  is 
enough  for  a  young  woman  that  she  should  be  able  to 
house,  feed  and  clothe  herself  in  such  wise  as  to  go  on 


A    PREFACE  xiii 

living.  She  wants  pleasure,  pretty  clothes,  she  wants 
to  visit  theatres,  to  walk  in  green  fields,  she  wants  to  buy 
novelettes,  chromos,  trashy  jewellery,  she  wants  to  play 
games  and,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  to  'have 
money  for  Earl's  Court,  the  skating-rink  or  the  picture 
palace.  You  can  scoff  at  those  desires  if  you  like,  if  you 
prefer  and  can  afford  dinners  at  the  Savoy  and  stalls  at 
the  Opera,  but  the  working  girl's  idea  of  pleasure  is 
neither  more  nor  less  legitimate  than  yours;  she  knows 
what  she  wants  and  I  think  her  as  entitled  to  it  as  if  she 
were  a  Countess  or  the  wife  of  a  millionaire.  I  look 
upon  the  desire  for  pleasure  as  normal,  as  human;  it  is  a 
desire  implanted  deep  in  everything  that  lives,  from  the 
dog  that  begs  for  sugar  to  the  old  man  in  his  bath 
chair  who  wants  to  bask  in  the  sun. 

We  want  pleasure  as  well  as  food,  and  it  is  partly 
because  young  women  want  pleasure  that  they  become 
prostitutes.  They  are  not  content  to  spend  twelve  hours 
a  day  in  a  shop,  or  sixteen  in  a  kitchen;  they  want  ease, 
privacy,  laughter,  excitement.  Well,  how  shall  they  have 
it?  Shall  they  be  told  they  must  not  have  it?  Have 
we,  of  the  well-to-do  class,  we  who  spend  a  workman's 
annual  wage  on  a  summer  holiday,  the  audacity  to  say 
that  they  ought  not  to  want  it?  Perhaps  they  ought 
not  to  want  it,  perhaps  they  ought  to  be  ascetics,  but 
we  are  not  ascetics,  and  we  cannot  preach  to  the  poor. 
Personally  I  do  not  think  we  ought  to  be  ascetics,  but 
let  those  who  do  think  so  give  an  example  which  is 
woefully  lacking  in  a  capitalist  society. 

Wanting  pleasure,  and  often  wanting  bread,  lonely,  ill 
educated,  petty,  limited,  tempted  by  man,  naturally  joy- 
ous and  life-lusty,  women  find  that  the  things  they  need 
appear  to  be  given  to  the  courtesan.  It  is  not  wonderful 
that  they  should  give  way.  Thrown  out  of  employment 
by  seasonal  trades,  or  seduced  and  driven,  with  their 
child,  out  of  their  homes,  they  choose  the  one  avenue. 
What  does  that  mean?  It  does  not  mean  that  society 
should  grind  the  fallen,  prosecute  and  imprison  them  for 
soliciting,  send  them  to  penal  settlements,  refuse  to  con- 
sort with  them,  thrust  them  back  into  their  old  haunts; 


xiv  A    PREFACE 

still,  I  will  not  labour  that,  for  I  have  no  plan  for  curing 
prostitutes:  it  is  too  late,  for  the  steady  world  cannot 
receive  back  most  of  these  adventuresses.  But  I  have  a 
plan  for  reducing  the  temptations  of  the  life,  and  that  is 
to  provide  another  avenue.  Let  it  be  laid  down  that  a 
woman  has  a  right  to  work  and  a  right  to  live,  a  right 
to  education,  primary,  secondary,  higher  and  technical; 
a  right  to  be  maintained  while  she  is  being  educated;  a 
right  to  a  minimum  wage;  a  right  to  work  not  more  than 
a  moderate  number  of  hours;  a  right  to  a  proper  endow- 
ment for  motherhood,*  a  right  to  full  wages  during  sick- 
ness; a  right  to  an  old  age  pension  which  shall  not  be 
less  than  £i,  and  begin  at  about  fifty-five. 

Then,  labouring  moderately  and  for  a  fair  wage,  se- 
cured against  accident,  and  freed  from  the  dangers  of 
the  future,  women  will  be  able  to  afford  to  be  splendid, 
they  will  no  longer  be  tempted  to  be  base.  It  will  be  ex- 
pensive. It  will  cost  some  people  their  motor-cars.  Which 
will  you  have  in  Piccadilly?  More  motor-cars  or  less 
prostitutes? 

W.  L.  GEORGE. 


*  Rather  more  than  the  preposterous  3(M  of  the  Insurance 
Act,  and  73  6d  allowance  for  sickness. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 


PART   ONE 


CHAPTER  I 

"WE  go."  The  lascar  meditatively  pressed  his  face, 
brown  and  begrimed  with  coal  dust,  streaked  •  here  and 
there  with  sweat,  against  the  rope  which  formed  the 
rough  bulwark.  His  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  shore, 
near  by,  between  which  and  the  ship's  side  the  water 
quivered  quicker  and  quicker  in  little  ripples,  each  ripple 
carrying  an  iridescent  film  of  grey  ooze.  Without  joy  or 
sadness  he  was  bidding  goodbye  to  Bombay,  his  city. 
Those  goodbyes  are  often  farewells  for  lascars  who  must 
face  the  Bay  and  the  Channel.  But  the  stoker  did  not 
care. 

His  companion  lay  by  his  side,  lazily  propped  up 
on  his  elbow,  not  deigning  even  to  take  a  last  look  at 
the  market  place,  seething  still  with  its  crowded  reds  and 
blues  and  golds.  "Dekko! "  cried  the  first  stoker  pointing 
to  the  wharf  where  a  white  man  in  dirty  smock  had  just 
cast  off  the  last  rope,  which  came  away  swishing  through 
the  air. 

His  companion  did  not  raise  his  eyes.  Slowly  he 
tilted  up  his  pannikin  and  let  the  water  flow  in  a  thin 
stream  into  his  mouth,  keeping  the  metal  away  from  his 
lips.  Then,  careless  of  the  land  of  Akbar,  he  let  himself 
sink  on  the  deck  and  composed  himself  to  sleep.  India 
was  no  concern  of  his. 

A  few  yards  away  a  woman  watched  them  absently 
from  the  upper  deck.  She  was  conscious  of  them,  con- 
scious too  of  the  slow  insistent  buzzing  of  a  gad-fly.  Her 
eyes  slowly  shifted  to  the  shore,  passed  over  the  market 
place,  stopped  at  the  Fort.  There,  in  the  open  space,  a 
troop  was  drilling,  white  and  speckless,  alertly  wheeling 
at  the  word  of  command.  Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on 

i 


2  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  group  as  the  ship  imperceptibly  receded  from  the 
shore,  throbbing  steadily  as  the  boilers  got  up  steam.  A 
half -naked  brown  boy  was  racing  along  the  wharf  to 
gain  a  start  and  beat  the  vessel  before  she  reached  the 
military  crane. 

The  woman  turned  away.  She  was  neither  tall  nor 
short:  she  did  not  attract  attention  overmuch  but  she 
was  one  of  those  who  retain  such  attention  as  they  draw. 
She  was  clad  entirely  in  black;  her  face  seemed  to  start 
forward  .intensified.  Her  features  were  regular;  her 
mouth  small.  Her  skin,  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  a 
broad  brimmed  hat,  blushed  still  darker  at  the  cheeks. 
The  attraction  was  all  in  the  eyes,  large  and  grey,  sug- 
gestive of  energy  without  emotion.  Her  chin  was  square, 
perhaps  too  thick  in  the  jaw. 

She  turned  once  more  and  leant  against  the  bulwark. 
A  yard  away  another  woman  was  also  standing,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  shore,  on  a  figure  who  waited  motion- 
less on  the  fast  receding  wharf.  As  the  steamer  kept  on 
her  course  the  woman  craned  forward,  saw  once  more 
and  then  lost  sight  of  the  lonely  figure.  She  was  small, 
fair,  a  little  insignificant,  and  dressed  all  in  white  drill. 

The  steamer  had  by  now  attained  half  speed.  The 
shore  was  streaming  by.  The  second  woman  turned  her 
back  on  the  bulwark,  looked  about  aimlessly,  then,  per- 
ceiving her  neighbour,  impulsively  went  up  to  her  and 
stood  close  beside  her. 

The  two  women  did  not  speak,  but  remained  watch- 
ing the  shoals  fly  past.  Far  away  a  train  in  Kolaba 
puffed  up  sharp  bursts  of  smoke  into  the  blue  air.  There 
was  nothing  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  beholder  in 
that  interminable  shore,  low-lying  and  muddy,  splashed 
here  and  there  with  ragged  trees.  It  was  a  desert  almost, 
save  for  a  village  built  between  two  swamps.  Here  and 
there  smoke  arose,  brown  and  peaty  from  a  bonfire.  In 
the  evening  light  the  sun's  declining  rays  lit  up  with 
radiance  the  red  speck  of  a  heavy  shawl  on  the  tiny 
figure  of  a  brown  girl. 

Little  by  little,  as  the  ship  entered  the  fairway,  the 
shore  receded  almost  into  nothingness.  The  two  women 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  3 

still  watched,  while  India  merged  into  shadow.  It  was 
the  second  hour  and,  as  the  ship  slowly  turned  towards 
the  west,  the  women  watched  the  great  cocoanut  trees 
turn  into  black  specks  upon  Maria  point.  Then,  slowly, 
the  shore  sank  into  the  dark  sea  until  it  was  gone  and 
nothing  was  left  of  India  save  the  vaguely  paler  night 
that  tells  of  land  and  the  even  fainter  white  spears  of  the 
distant  light. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  still,  side  by  side.  Then 
the  fair  woman  suddenly  put  her  hand  on  her  compan- 
ion's arm.  "I'm  cold,"  she  said,  "let's  go  below." 

The  dark  girl  looked  at  her  sympathetically.  "Yes," 
she  said,  "let's,  who'd  have  thought  we  wanted  to  see 
more  of  the  beastly  country  than  we  could  help.  .  .  . 
I  say,  what's  the  matter,  Molly?" 

Molly  was  still  looking  towards  the  light;  one  of  her 
feet  tapped  the  deck  nervously;  she  fumbled  for  her 
handkerchief.  "Nothing,  nothing,"  she  said  indistinctly, 
"come  and  unpack."  She  turned  away  from  her  com- 
panion and  quickly  walked  towards  the  gangway. 

The  dark  girl  looked  once  more  into  the  distance  where 
even  the  searchlight  had  waned.  "Vic!"  cried  the  fair 
girl  querulously,  half  way  up  the  deck.  "All  right,  I'm 
coming,"  replied  the  woman  in  black.  She  looked  again 
at  the  pale  horizon  into  which  India  had  faded,  at  the 
deck  before  her  where  a  little  black  cluster  of  people 
had  formed  to  look  their  last  upon  the  light.  Then  she 
turned  and  followed  her  companion. 

The  cabin  was  on  the  lower  deck,  small,  stuffy  in  the 
extreme.  Its  two  grave-like  bunks,  its  drop  table,  even 
its  exiguous  armchair  promised  no  comfort.  On  the 
worn  carpet  the  pattern  had  almost  vanished;  alone  the 
official  numerals  on  the  edge  stared  forth.  For  half  an 
hour  the  two  women  unpacked  in  silence;  Molly  knelt 
by  the  side  of  her  trunk  delving  into  it,  dragging  out 
garments  which  she  tried  to  find  room  for  on  the  scanty 
pegs.  Her  companion  merely  raised  the  lid  of  her  trunk 
to  ease  the  pressure  on  her  clothes,  and  placed  a  small 
dressing-case  on  the  drop  table.  Once  she  would  have 
spoken  but,  at  that  moment,  a  faint  sob  came  from  Mol- 


4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

ly's  kneeling  form.  She  went  up  to  her,  put  her  arm 
about  her  neck  and  kissed  her  cheek.  She  undressed 
wearily,  climbed  into  the  upper  berth.  Soon  Molly  did 
likewise,  after  turning  down  the  light.  For  a  while  she 
sighed  and  turned  uneasily;  then  she  became  quieter, 
her  breathing  more  measured,  and  she  slept. 

Victoria  Fulton  lay  in  her  berth,  her  eyes  wide  open, 
glued  to  the  roof  a  foot  or  so  above  her  face.  It  was 
very  like  a  coffin,  she  thought,  perhaps  a  suitable  enough 
habitation  for  her,  but  at  present,  not  in  the  least  tempt- 
ing. A  salutary  capacity  for  optimism  was  enabling  her 
to  review  the  past  three  years  and  to  speculate  about  the 
future.  Not  that  either  was  very  rosy,  especially  the 
future. 

The  steady  throb  of  the  screw  pulsated  through  the 
stuffy  cabin,  and  blended  with  the  silence  broken  only 
by  Molly's  regular  breathing  in  the  lower  berth.  Victoria 
could  not  help  remembering  other  nights  passed  also  in 
a  stuffy  little  cabin,  where  the  screw  was  throbbing  as 
steadily,  and  when  the  silence  was  broken  by  breathing 
as  regular,  but  a  little  heavier.  Three  years  only,  and 
she  was  going  home.  But  now  she  was  leaving  behind  her 
the  high  hopes  she  had  brought  with  her. 

She  was  no  exception  to  the  common  rule,  and  memo- 
ries, whether  bitter  or  sweet,  had  always  bridged  for 
her  the  gulf  between  wakefulness  and  sleep.  And  what 
could  be  more  natural  than  to  recall  those  nights,  three 
years  ago,  when  every  beat  of  that  steady  screw  was 
bringing  her  nearer  to  the  country  where  her  young  hus- 
band was,  according  to  his  mood,  going  to  win  the  V.  C., 
trace  the  treasure  stolen  from  a  Begum,  or  become  mili- 
tary member  on  the  Viceroy's  Council?  Poor  old  Dicky, 
she  thought,  perhaps  it  was  as  well  he  did  not  live  to 
see  himself  a  major,  old  and  embittered,  with  all  those 
hopes  behind  him. 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  thought  of 
Fulton.  The  good  old  days,  the  officers'  ball  at  Lymp- 
ton  when  she  danced  with  him  half  the  night,  the  rutty 
lane  where  they  met  to  sit  on  a  bank  of  damp  moss 
smelling  earth  and  crushed  leaves,  and  the  crumbling 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  5 

little  church  where  she  became  Fulton's  wife,  all  that  was 
far  away.  How  dulled  it  all  was,  too,  by  those  three 
years  during  which,  in  the  hot  moist  air  of  the  plains, 
she  had  seen  him  degenerate,  his  skin  lose  its  freshness, 
his  eyelids  pucker  and  gather  pouches,  his  tongue  grow 
ever  more  bitter  as  he  attempted  to  still  with  whisky  the 
drunkard's  chronic  thirst.  She  could  not  even  shudder 
at  the  thought  of  all  it  had  meant  for  her,  at  the  horror 
of  seeing  him  become  every  day  more  stupefied,  at  the 
savage  outbursts  of  the  later  days,  at  the  last  scenes, 
crude  and  physically  foul.  Three  years  had  taught  her 
brain  dullness  to  such  scenes  as  those. 

The  tragedy  of  Fulton  was  a  common  enough  thing. 
Heat,  idleness,  temporary  affluence,  all  those  things  that 
do  not  let  a  man  see  that  life  is  blessed  only  by  the 
works  that  enable  him  to  forget  it,  had  played  havoc  with 
him.  He  had  followed  up  his  initial  error  of  coming  into 
the  world  at  all  by  marrying  a  woman  who  neither  ca- 
joled nor  coerced  him.  With  the  best  of  intentions  she 
had  bored  him  to  extinction.  His  interest  in  things  be- 
came slender;  he  drank  himself  to  death,  and  not  even 
the  ghost  of  his  self  lived  to  grieve  by  his  bedside. 

In  spite  of  everything  it  had  not  been  a  bad  life  in  its 
way.  Victoria  had  been  the  belle,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Major 
Dartle  and  her  peroxidised  tresses.  And  there  had  been 
polo  (Dicky  always  would  have  three  ponies  and  refused 
three  hundred  guineas  for  Tagrag)  and  regimental  dances 
and  gymkhanas  and  what  not.  Under  the  sleepy  sun 
these  three  years  had  passed,  not  like  a  flash  of  lightning, 
but  slowly,  dreamily,  in  the  unending  routine  of  marches, 
inspections,  migrations  to  and  from  the  hills.  The  end 
had  come  quickly.  One  day  they  carried  Dick  Fulton 
all  the  way  from  the  mess  and  laid  him  under  his  own 
verandah.  The  fourth  day  he  died  of  cirrhosis  of  the 
liver.  Even  Mrs.  Major  Dartle  who  formally  called 
and  lit  up  the  darkened  room  with  the  meretricious  glow 
of  her  curls  hinted  that  it  was  a  happy  release.  The 
station  in  general  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  person  for  whom 
release  had  come. 

As  Victoria  lay  in  her  coffin-like  berth  she  vainly  tried 


6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  analyse  her  feeling  for  Fulton.  The  three  years  had 
drawn  over  her  past  something  like  a  veil  behind  which 
she  could  see  the  dim  shapes  of  her  impressions  dancing 
like  ghostly  marionettes.  She  knew  that  she  had  loved 
him  with  the  discreet  passion  of  an  Englishwoman.  He 
had  burst  in  upon  her  ravished  soul  like  the  materialised 
dream  of  a  schoolgirl;  he  had  been  adorably  careless, 
adorably  rakish.  For  a  whole  year  all  his  foibles  had 
been  charms  in  so  far  as  they  made  the  god  more  human, 
nearer  to  her.  Then,  one  night,  he  had  returned  home 
so  drunk  as  to  fall  prostrate  on  the  tiles  of  the  verandah 
and  sleep  there  until  next  morning.  She  had  not  dared 
to  call  the  ayah  or  the  butler  and,  as  she  could  not  rouse 
or  lift  him,  she  had  left  him  lying  there  under  some  rugs 
and  mosquito  netting. 

During  the  rest  of  that  revolutionary  night  she  had 
not  slept,  nor  had  she  found  the  relief  of  tears  that  is 
given  most  women.  Hot  waves  of  indignation  flowed 
over  her.  She  wanted  to  get  up,  to  stamp  with  rage, 
to  kick  the  disgraceful  thing  on  the  tiles.  She  held  her- 
self down,  however,  or  perhaps  the  tradition  of  the  Eng- 
lish counties  whispered  to  her  that  anything  was  prefer- 
able to  scandal,  that  crises  must  be  noiseless.  When  dawn 
came  and  she  at  last  managed  to  arouse  Fulton  by  flood- 
ing his  head  with  the  contents  of  the  water  jug,  the  hot 
fit  was  gone.  She  felt  cold,  too  aloof,  too  far  away  from 
him  to  hate  him,  too  pertrified  to  reproach  him. 

Fulton  took  no  notice  of  the  incident.  He  was  still 
young  and  vigorous  enough  to  shake  off  within  a  few 
hours  the  effects  of  the  drink.  Besides  he  seldom  men- 
tioned things  that  affected  their  relations;  in  the  keep 
of  his  heart  he  hid  the  resentment  of  a  culprit  against 
the  one  who  has  caught  him  in  the  act.  He  confined  his 
conversation  to  daily  happenings;  in  moments  of  expan- 
sion he  talked  of  the  future.  They  did  not,  however, 
draw  nearer  one  another;  thus  the  evolution  of  their  mar- 
riage tended  inevitably  to  draw  them  apart.  Victoria 
was  no  longer  angry,  but  she  was  frightened  because  she 
had  been  frightened  and  she  hated  the  source  of  her  fear. 
Fulton,  thick  skinned  as  he  was,  felt  their  estrangement 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  7 

keenly.  He  grew  to  hate  his  wife;  it  almost  made  him 
wish  to  hurt  her  again.  So  he  absented  himself  more 
often,  drank  more,  then  died.  His  wife  was  free.  So 
this  was  freedom.  Freedom,  a  word  to  conjure  with, 
thought  Victoria,  when  one  is  enslaved  and  meaning  very 
little  when  one  is  free.  She  was  able  to  do  what  she 
liked  and  wished  to  do  nothing.  Of  course  things  would 
smooth  themselves  out:  they  always  did,  even  though 
the  smoothing  process  might  be  lengthy.  They  must  do 
so,  but  how?  There  were  friends  of  course,  and  Ted, 
and  thirty  pounds  of  Consols  unless  they'd  gone  down 
again,  as  safe  investments  are  wont  to  do.  She  would 
have  to  do  some  work.  Rather  funny,  but  how  jolly  to 
draw  your  first  month's  or  week's  salary;  everybody 
said  it  was  a  proud  moment.  Of  course  it  would  have 
to  be  earned,  but  that  did  not  matter:  everybody  had  to 
earn  what  they  got,  she  supposed,  and  they  ought  to  en- 
joy doing  it.  Old  Flynn,  the  D.C.,  used  to  say  that  work 
was  a  remunerative  occupation  you  didn't  like,  but  then 
he  had  been  twenty  years  in  India. 

Molly  turned  uneasily  in  her  bunk  and  settled  down 
again.  Victoria's  train  of  thought  was  broken  and  she 
could  not  detach  her  attention  from  the  very  gentle  snore 
that  came  from  the  lower  berth,  a  snore  gentle  but  so 
insidious  that  it  seemed  to  dominate  the  steady  beat  of 
the  screw.  Through  the  porthole,  over  which  now  there 
raced  some  flecks  of  spray,  she  could  see  nothing  but  the 
blackness  of  the  sky,  a  blackness  which  at  times  turned 
to  grey  whenever  the  still  inkier  sea  appeared.  The 
cabin  seemed  black  and  empty,  lit  up  faintly  by  a  white 
skirt  flung  on  a  chair.  Slowly  Victoria  sank  into  sleep, 
conscious  of  a  half  dream  of  England  where  so  many  un- 
knowable things  must  happen. 

CHAPTER  II 

"No,  Molly,  I  don't  think  it's  very  nice  of  you,"  said 
Victoria,  "we've  been  out  four  days  and  I've  done  noth- 
ing but  mope  and  mope;  it's  all  very  well  my  being  a 
widow  and  all  that:  I'm  not  suggesting  you  and  I  should 


8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

play  hop  scotch  on  deck  with  the  master  gunner,  but  for 
four  days  I've  been  reading  a  three  months'  old  Harper's 
and  the  memoirs  of  Mademoiselle  de  I  don't  know  what, 
and  .  .  ." 

"But  what  have  I  done?"  cried  Molly. 

"I'm  bored,"  replied  Victoria,  with  admirable  detach- 
ment, "and  what's  more,  I  don't  intend  to  go  on  being 
bored  for  another  fortnight;  I'm  going  on  deck  to  find 
somebody  to  amuse  me." 

"You  can't  do  that,"  said  Molly,  "they're  washing  it." 

"Very  well,  then,  I'll  go  and  watch  and  sing  songs  to 
the  men."  Victoria  glared  at  her  unoffending  companion, 
her  lips  tightening  and  her  jaw  growing  ominously 
squarer. 

"But  my  dear  girl,"  said  Molly,  "I'm  awfully  sorry. 
I  didn't  know  you  cared;  come  and  have  a  game  of 
quoits  with  me  and  old  Cairns.  There's  a  place  behind 
the  companion  which  I  should  say  nobody  ever  does 
wash." 

Victoria  was  on  the  point  of  answering  that  she  hated 
quoits  as  she  never  scored  and  they  were  generally  dirty, 
but  the  prospect  of  returning  to  the  ancient  Harper's  was 
not  alluring,  so  she  followed  Molly  to  the  hatchway  and 
climbed  up  to  the  upper  deck  still  shining  moist  and 
white.  Apparently  they  would  not  have  to  play  behind 
the  companion.  Four  men  were  leaning  against  the  bul- 
warks, looking  out  at  nothing  as  people  do  on  board 
ship.  Victoria  just  had  time  to  notice  a  very  broad 
flannel-clad  back  surmounted  by  a  thick  neck,  while 
Molly  went  up  to  the  last  man  and  unceremoniously 
prodded  him  in  the  ribs. 

"Wake  up,  Bobby,"  she  said,  "I'm  waiting." 

The  men  all  wheeled  round  suddenly.  The  broad 
man  stepped  forward  quickly  and  shook  hands  with 
Molly.  Then  he  took  a  critical  look  at  Victoria.  The 
three  young  men  struggled  for  an  absurd  little  bag  which 
Molly  always  dropped  at  the  right  moment. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Fulton,"  said  the  broad  man 
stretching  out  his  hand.  Victoria  took  it  hesitatingly. 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  he  said.     "My  name's 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  9 

Cairns.    Major  Cairns.    You  know.    Travancores.    Met 
you  at  His  Excellency's  hop." 

Of  course  she  remembered  him.  He  was  so  typical. 
Anybody  could  have  told  his  profession  and  his  rank 
at  sight.  He  had  a  broad  humorous  face,  tanned  over 
freckled  pink.  Since  he  left  Wellington  he  had  grown 
a  little  in  every  direction  and  had  become  a  large  middle- 
aged  boy.  Victoria  took  him  in  at  one  look.  A  square 
face  such  as  that  of  Cairns,  distinctly  chubby,  framing 
grey  blue  eyes,  was  as  easily  recalled  as  forgotten.  She 
took  in  his  forehead,  high  and  likely  to  become  higher 
as  his  hair  receded;  his  straight  aggressive  nose;  his  little 
rough  moustache  looking  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  ragged 
strip  off  an  Irish  terrier's  back. 

While  Victoria  was  wondering  what  to  say,  Molly,  de- 
termined to  show  her  that  she  was  not  going  to  leave 
her  out,  had  thrust  her  three  henchmen  forward. 

"This  is  Bobby,"  she  remarked.  Bobby  was  a  tall 
young  man  with  a  round  head,  bright  brown  eyes  full 
of  cheerfulness  and  hot  temper.  "And  Captain  Alastair 
.  .  .  and  Mr.  Parker."  Alastair  smiled.  Smiles  were 
his  method  of  expression.  Mr.  Parker  bowed  rather  low 
and  said  nothing.  He  had  at  once  conceived  for  Victoria 
the  mixture  of  admiration  and  dislike  that  a  man  feels 
towards  a  woman  who  would  not  marry  him  if  she  knew 
where  he  had  been  to  school. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Parker  slowly,  "that  your  .  .  ." 
But  he  broke  off  suddenly,  realising  the  mourning  and 
feeling  the  ground  to  be  unsafe. 

"Mr.  Parker,  I've  been  looking  for  you  all  the  morn- 
ing," interjected  Molly,  with  intuition.  "You've  promised 
to  teach  me  to  judge  my  distance,"  and  she  cleverly 
pushed  Bobby  between  Mr.  Parker  and  Victoria.  "Come 
along,  and  you,  Bobby,  you  can  pick  the  rings  up." 

"Right  O,"  said  Bobby  readily.  She  turned  towards 
the  stern  followed  by  the  obedient  Bobby  and  Mr.  Parker. 

Captain  Alastair  smiled  vacuously,  made  as  if  to  fol- 
low the  trio,  realising  that  it  was  a  false  start,  swerved 
back  and  finally  covering  his  confusion  by  sliding  a  few 


io  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

yards  onwards  to  tell  Mrs.  Colonel  Lanning  that  it  was 
blowing  up  for  a  squall. 

Victoria  had  watched  the  little  incident  with  amused 
detachment. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Parker?"  she  enquired. 

"Met  him  yesterday  for  the  first  time,"  said  Cairns, 
"and  really  I  can't  say  I  want  to  know.  Might  be  awk- 
ward. Must  be  in  the  stores  or  something.  Looks  to 
me  like  a  cross  between  a  mute  and  a  parson.  Bit  of  a 
worm,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  he  didn't  hurt  my  feelings,"  remarked  Victoria; 
"but  some  men  never  know  what  women  have  got  on." 
Cairns  looked  her  over  approvingly.  Shoddy-looking 
mourning.  Durzee  made  of  course.  But,  Lord,  what 
hands  and  eyes. 

"I  daresay  not,"  he  said  drily.  "I  wish  he'd  keep 
away  though.  Let's  walk  up." 

He  took  a  stride  or  two  away  from  Alastair.  Victoria 
followed  him.  She  was  rather  taken  with  his  rough 
simplicity,  the  comfort  of  his  apparent  obtuseness.  So 
like  an  uncle,  she  thought. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Fulton,"  said  Cairns,  "I  suppose  you're 
glad  to  be  here,  as  usual." 

"As  usual?" 

"Yes,  as  usual;  people  are  always  glad  to  be  on  board. 
If  they're  going  home,  they're  going  home  and  if  they're 
going  out  they're  thinking  that  it's  going  to  be  full  pay 
instead  of  half." 

"It  hadn't  struck  me  like  that,"  said  Victoria  with  a 
smile,  "though  I  suppose  I  am  glad  to  go  home." 

"Funny,"  said  the  Major,  "I  never  found  a  country 
like  India  to  make  people  want  to  come  to  it  and  to 
make  them  want  to  get  out  of  it  when  they  were  there. 
We  had  a  sub  once.  You  should  have  heard  him  on  the 
dead  cities.  Somewhere  southeast  of  Hyderabad,  he 
said.  And  native  jewellery,  and  fakirism,  and  all  that. 
He's  got  a  liver  now  and  the  last  I  heard  of  him  was  that 
he  put  his  shoulder  out  at  polo." 

Victoria  looked  out  over  the  immense  oily  greenness 
of  the  water.  Far  away  on  the  skyline  a  twirling  wreath 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  n 

of  smoke  showed  that  some  tramp  steamer  was  passing 
them  unseen.  The  world  was  between  them;  they  were 
crawling  one  one  side  of  the  ball  and  the  tramp  on  the 
other,  like  flies  on  an  orange.  Was  that  tramp,  Bombay 
bound,  carrying  more  'than  a  cargo  of  rolling  stock?  Per- 
haps the  mate  had  forgotten  his  B.S.A.  fittings  and  was 
brooding,  he  too,  over  the  dead  cities,  somewhere  south- 
east of  Hyderabad. 

"No,"  repeated  Victoria  slowly,  "it  hadn't  struck  me 
like  that." 

Cairns  looked  at  her  curiously.  He  had  heard  of  Ful- 
ton and  knew  of  the  manner  of  his  death.  He  could  not 
help  thinking  that  she  did  not  seem  to  show  many  signs 
of  a  recent  bereavement,  but  then  she  was  well  rid  of 
Fulton.  Of  course  there  were  other  things  too.  Going 
back  as  the  widow  of  an  Indian  officer  was  all  very  well 
if  you  could  afford  the  luxury,  but  if  you  couldn't,  well, 
it  couldn't  be  much  catch.  So,  being  thirty-eight  or  so, 
he  prudently  directed  the  conversation  towards  the  cus- 
tomary subjects  discussed  on  board  a  trooper:  the  abom- 
inable accommodation  and  the  appalling  incompetency 
of  the  government  with  regard  to  the  catering. 

Victoria  listened  to  him  placidly.  His  ancient  tittle- 
tattle  had  been  made  familiar  to  her  by  three  years'  as- 
sociation with  his  fellows,  and  she  had  learned  that  she 
need  not  say  much,  as  his  one  wish  was  naturally  to 
revile  the  authorities  and  all  their  work.  But  one  item 
interested  her. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "I  don't  see  why  I  should  talk. 
I've  had  enough  of  it.  I'm  sending  in  my  papers  as  soon 
as  I've  settled  a  small  job  at  Perim.  I'll  get  back  to 
Aden  and  shake  all  that  beastly  Asiatic  dust  off  my 
shoes." 

"Surely,"  said  Victoria,  "you're  not  going  to  leave  the 
Service?"  Her  intonation  implied  that  she  was  urging 
him  not  to  commit  suicide.  Some  women  must  pass 
twice  under  the  yoke. 

"Fed  up.  Simply  fed  up  with  it.  Suppose  I  do  waste 
another  twenty  years  in  India  or  Singapore  or  Hong 
Kong,  how  much  forrarder  -am  I?  They'll  retire  me  as- 


12  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

as 


mains  of  malana,™  digestion  and  no  temper     I'Uth 

"but  it  may  not  t 


join  What  one 


CHAPTER  HI 

,H±N?n^aJu°T?r,is  not  eventf«l-    Victoria 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  13 

cats  and  Victoria  did  not  avoid  his  cheery  neighbourhood. 
But  he  was  summed  up  in  the  small  fact  which  she 
recalled  with  gentle  amusement  a  long  time  after:  she 
had  never  known  his  name.  For  her,  as  for  the  ship's 
company,  he  was  "Bobby,"  merely  "Bobby." 

The  female  section  too  could  detain  none  but  cats  and 
hens,  as  Victoria  put  it.  She  had  moved  too  long  a  tiny 
satellite  in  the  orbit  of  Mrs.  Colonel  So-and-So  to  return 
to  the  little  group  which  slumbered  all  day  by  the  funnel 
dreaming  aloud  the  petty  happenings  of  Bombay.  The 
heavy  rains  at  Chandraga,  the  simply  awful  things  that 
had  been  said  about  an  A.D.C.  and  Mrs.  Bryan,  and  the 
scandalous  way  in  which  a  Babu  had  been  made  a  judge, 
all  this  filled  her  with  an  extraordinary  weariness.  She 
felt,  in  the  presence  of  these  remains  of  her  daily  life, 
as  she  would  when  confronted  for  the  third  time  with 
the  cold  leg  of  mutton. 

True  there  was  Cairns,  a  man  right  enough  and  jovial 
in  spite  of  his  cynical  assumption  that  nothing  was  worth 
anything.  He  could  produce  passing  fair  aphorisms, 
throw  doubts  on  the  value  of  success  and  happiness. 
There  was  nothing,  however,  to  hold  on  to.  Victoria  had 
not  found  in  him  a  teacher  or  a  helper.  He  was  merely 
destructive  of  thought  and  epicurean  in  taste.  Convinced 
that  wine,  woman  and  song  were  quite  valueless  things 
he  nevertheless  knew  the  best  Riidesheimer  and  had  an 
eye  for  the  droop  of  Victoria's  shoulders. 

Cairns  obviously  liked  Victoria.  He  did  not  shun  his 
fellow  passengers,  for  he  considered  that  the  dullest  peo- 
ple are  the  most  interesting,  yet  she  could  not  help  notic- 
ing from  time  to  time  that  his  eyes  followed  her  around. 
He  was  a  good  big  man  and  she  knew  that  his  thick 
hand,  a  little  swollen  and  sunburnt  would  be  a  good  thing 
to  touch.  But  there  was  in  him  none  of  that  subtle 
magnetism  that  grasps  and  holds.  He  was  coarse,  per- 
haps a  little  vulgar  at  heart. 

Thus  Victoria  had  roamed  aimlessly  over  the  ship, 
visiting  even  the  bows  where,  everlastingly,  a  lascar 
seemed  to  brood  in  fixed  attitudes  as  a  Budh  dreaming 
of  Nirvana.  She  often  wandered  in  the  troop-deck 


14  A  BED  OF.  ROSES 

filled  with  the  womankind  and  children  of  the  non-coms. 
Without  disliking  children  she  could  find  no  attraction 
in  these  poor  little  faded  things  born  to  be  scorched  by 
the  Indian  sun.  The  women  too,  mostly  yellow  and  faded, 
always  recalled  to  her,  so  languid  and  tired  were  they, 
commonplace  flowers,  marigolds,  drooping  on  their  stems. 
Besides,  the  society  of  the  upper  deck  found  a  replica  on 
the  troop  deck,  where  it  was  occasionally  a  little  shriller. 
There  too,  she  could  catch  snatches  which  told  of  the 
heavy  rains  of  Chandraga,  the  goings-on  of  Lance  Cor- 
poral Maccaskie's  wife  and  the  disgrace  of  giving  Babu 
clerks  more  than  fifty  rupees  a  month. 

Perpetually  the  Indian  ocean  shimmered  by,  calm  as 
the  opaque  eye  of  a  shark,  breaking  at  times  into  im- 
mense rollers  that  swelled  hardly  more  -than  a  woman's 
breast.  And  the  days  passed  on. 

They  were  nearing  Aden,  though  nothing  on  the  mauve 
horizon  told  of  the  outpost  where  the  filth  of  the  East 
begins  to  overwhelm  the  ugliness  of  the  West.  Victoria 
and  Cairns  were  leaning  on  the  starboard  bulwark.  She 
was  looking  vacuously  into  the  greying  sky,  conscious 
that  Cairns  was  watching  her.  She  felt  with  extraordi- 
nary clearness  that  he  was  gazing  as  if  spell-bound  at 
the  soft  and  regular  rise  and  fall  of  her  skin  towards  the 
coarse  black  openwork  of  her  bodice.  Far  away  in  the 
twilight  was  something  long  and  black,  hardly  more  than 
a  line  vanishing  towards  the  north. 

"Araby,"  said  Cairns. 

Victoria  looked  more  intently.  Far  away,  half  veiled 
by  the  mists  of  night,  unlit  by  the  evening  star,  lay  the 
coast.  Araby,  the  land  of  manna  and  milk — of  black- 
eyed  women — of  horses  that  champ  strange  bits.  Here 
and  there  a  blackened  rock  sprang  up  from  the  waste  of 
sand  and  scrub.  Its  utter  desolation  awakened  a  sympa- 
thetic chord.  It  was  lonely,  as  she  was  lonely.  As  the 
night  swifty  rushed  into  the  heavens,  she  let  her  arm 
rest  against  that  of  Cairns.  Then  his  hand  closed  over 
hers.  It  was  warm  and  hard;  something  like  a  pale  light 
of  companionship  struggled  through  the  solitude  of  her 
soul. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  15 

They  stood  cold  and  silent  while  the  night  swallowed 
up  the  coast  and  all,  save  here  and  there  the  foam  tip 
of  a  wave.  The  man  had  put  his  arm  around  her  and 
pressed  her  to  him.  She  did  not  resist.  The  soft  wind 
playing  in  her  hair  carried  a  straying  lock  into  his  eyes, 
half  blinding  him  and  making  him  catch  his  breath,  so 
redolent  was  it,  not  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  but  of  life, 
vigorous  and  rich  in  its  thousand  saps.  He  drew  her 
closer  to  him  and  pressed  his  lips  on  her  neck.  Victoria 
did  not  resist. 

From  the  forepeak  swathed  in  darkness,  came  the  faint 
unearthly  echoes  of  the  stoker's  song.  There  were  no 
fourths;  the  dominant  and  the  subdominant  were  absent. 
Strangely  attuned  to  the  western  ear,  the  sounds  some- 
times boomed,  sometimes  fell  to  a  whisper.  The  chant 
rose  like  incense  into  the  heavens,  celebrating  Durga, 
protector  of  the  Motherland,  Lakshmi,  bowered  in  the 
flower  that  in  the  water  grows.  Cairns  had  drawn  Vic- 
toria close  against  him.  He  was  stirred  and  shaken  as 
never  before.  All  conspired  against  him,  the  night,  the 
fancied  scents  of  Araby,  the  unresisting  woman  in  his 
arms  who  yielded  him  her  lips  with  the  passivity  of  weari- 
ness. They  did  not  think  as  they  kissed,  whether  laying 
the  foundation  of  regret  or  snatching  ,from  the  fleeting 
hour  a  moment  of  thoughtless  joy.  Again  a  brass  drum 
boomed  out  beyond  them,  softly  as  if  touched  by  velvet 
hands.  It  carried  the  buzzing  of  bees,  the  calls  of  corn- 
crakes, in  every  tone  the  rich  scents  of  the  jungle,  where 
undergrowth  rots  in  black  water — of  perfumes  that  burn 
before  the  gods.  Then  the  night  wind  arose  and  swept 
away  the  crooning  voices. 

CHAPTER    IV 

VICTORIA  stepped  out  on  the  platform  with  a  heart 
that  bounded  and  yet  shrank.  Not  even  the  first  faint 
coming  of  the  coastline  had  given  her  the  almost  physi- 
cal shock  that  she  experienced  on  this  bare  platform. 
Waterloo  station  lay  around  her  in  a  pall  of  faint  yellow 
mist  that  gripped  and  wrenched  at  her  throat.  Through 


1 6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  fog  a  thousand  ungainly  shapes  of  stairs  and  signals 
thrust  themselves,  some  crude  in  their  near  blackness, 
others  fainter  in  the  distance.  It  might  have  been  a 
dream  scene  but  for  the  uproar  that  rose  around  her 
from  the  rumble  of  London,  the  voices  of  a  great  crowd. 
Yet  all  this  violence  of  life,  the  darkness,  the  surge  of 
men  and  women,  all  this  told  her  that  she  was  once  more 
in  the  midst  of  things. 

She  found  her  belongings  mechanically,  fumblingly. 
She  did  not  realise  until  then  the  bitterness  that  drove 
its  iron  into  her  soul.  Already,  when  the  troopship  had 
entered  the  Channel  she  had  felt  a  cruel  pang  when  she 
realised  that  she  must  expect  nothing  and  that  nobody 
would  greet  her.  She  had  fled  from  the  circle  near  the 
funnel  when  the  talk  began  to  turn  round  London  and 
waiting  sisters  and  fathers,  round  the  Lord  Mayor's  show, 
the  play,  the  old-fashioned  Christmas.  Now,  as  she 
struggled  through  the  crowd  that  cried  out  and  laughed 
excitedly  and  kissed,  she  knew  her  isolation  was  complete. 
There  was  nobody  to  meet  her.  The  fog  made  her  eyes 
smart,  so  they  filled -readily  with  tears. 

As  she  sat  in  the  cab,  however,  and  there  flashed  by 
her  like  beacons  the  lights  of  the  stalls  in  the  Waterloo 
Road,  the  black  and  greasy  pavement  sown  with  orange 
peel,  she  felt  her  heart  beating  furiously  with  the  excite- 
ment of  home  coming.  She  passed  the  Thames  flowing 
silently,  swathed  in  its  shroud  of  mist.  Then  the  black- 
ness of  St.  James's  Park  through  which  the  cab  crawled 
timidly  as  if  it  feared  things  that  might  lurk  unknown  in 
the  fogbound  thickets. 

It  was  still  in  a  state  of  feverish  dreaming  that  Vic- 
toria entered  her  room  at  Curran's  Private  Hotel,  other- 
wise known  by  a  humble  number  in  Seymour  Street. 
"Curran's"  is  much  in  favour  among  Anglo-Indians,  as  it 
is  both  central  and  cheap.  It  has  everything  that  dis- 
tinguishes the  English  hotel  which  has  grown  from  a 
boarding-house  into  a  superior  establishment  where  you 
may  stay  at  so  much  a  day.  The  successful  owner  had 
bought  up  one  after  the  other  three  contiguous  houses 
and  had  connected  them  by  means  of  a  conservatory 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  17 

where  there  lived,  among  much  pampas  grass,  small  ferns 
in  pots  shrouded  in  pea-green  paper  and  sickly  plants  to 
which  no  name  could  be  attached  as  they  mostly  sug- 
gested stewed  lettuce.  It  was  impossible  to  walk  in  a 
straight  line  from  one  end  of  the  coalition  of  buildings  to 
the  other  without  climbing  and  descending  steps  every 
one  of  which  proclaimed  the  fact  that  the  leases  of  the 
houses  would  soon  fall  in.  From  the  three  kitchens 
ascended  three  smells  of  mutton.  The  three  halls  were 
strewn  with  bicycles,  gun  cases  in  their  last  phase,  sticks 
decrepit  or  dandified.  The  three  hat  racks,  all  early 
Victorian  in  their  lines,  bore  a  motley  cargo.  Dusty 
bowlers  hustled  it  with  heather  coloured  caps  and  top 
hats;  one  even  bore  a  pith  helmet  and  a  clerical  atrocity. 

Queer  as  Curran's  is,  it  is  comfortable  enough.  Vic- 
toria looked  around  her  room,  tiny  in  length  and  breadth, 
high  however  with  all  the  dignity  that  befits  an  odd  cor- 
ner left  over  by  the  Victorian  builder.  It  was  distin- 
guished by  its  simplicity,  for  the  walls  bore  nothing  what- 
ever beyond  a  restrained  papering  of  brownish  roses.  A 
small  black  and  gold  bed,  a  wardrobe  with  a  white  handle, 
a  washing  stand  with  a  marble  top  took  up  all  the  space 
left  by  the  large  tin  trunk  which  contained  most  of  Vic- 
toria's worldly  goods.  So  this,  thought  Victoria,  is  the 
beginning.  She  pulled  aside  the  curtain.  Before  her  lay 
Seymour  Street,  where  alone  an  eye  of  light  shone  faintly 
from  the  nearest  lamp  post.  Through  the  fog  came  the 
warning  noise  of  a  lorry  picking  its  way.  It  was  cold, 
cold,  all  this,  and  lonely  like  an  island. 

Her  meditations  were  disturbed  by  the  maid  who 
brought  her  hot  water. 

"My  name  is  Carlotta,"  said  the  girl  complacently  de- 
positing the  can  upon  the  marble  topped  washstand. 

"Yes?"  said  Victoria.     "You  are  a  foreigner?" 

"Yes.    I  am  Italian.    It  is  foggy,"  replied  the  girl. 

Victoria  sighed.  It  was  kind  of  the  girl  to  make  her 
feel  at  home,  to  smile  at  her  with  those  flashing  teeth  so 
well  set  in  her  ugly  little  brown  face.  She  went  to  the 
washstand  and  cried  out  in  horror  at  her  dirt  and  fog- 


i8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

begrimed  face,  rimmed  at  the  eyes,  furrowed  on  the  left 
by  the  course  of  that  tear  shed  at  Waterloo. 

"Tell  them  downstairs  I  shan't  be  ready  for  half  an. 
hour,"  she  said;  "it'll  take  me  about  a  week  to  get  quite 
clean,  I  should  say." 

Carlotta  bared  her  white  teeth  again  and  withdrew 
gently  as  a  cat,  while  Victoria  courageously  drenched  her 
face  and  neck.  The  scents  of  England,  already  conjured 
up  by  the  fog  and  the  mutton,  rose  at  her  still  more 
vividly  from  the  warm  water  which  inevitably  exhales 
the  traditional  perfume  of  hot  painted  can. 

Her  dinner  was  a  small  affair  but  delightful.  It  was 
good  to  eat  and  drink  once  more  things  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  for  the  first  twenty  years  of  her  life. 
Her  depression  had  vanished;  she  was  merely  hungry, 
and,  like  the  healthy  young  animal  she  was,  longing  for 
a  rare  cut  of  roast  beef,  accompanied  by  the  good  old 
English  potatoes  boiled  down  to  the  consistency  of  flour 
and  that  flavour  of  nothing.  Her  companions  were  so 
normal  that  she  could  not  help  wondering,  when  her  first 
hunger  was  sated  and  she  was  confronted  with  the  apple 
tart  of  her  fathers,  whether  she  was  not  in  the  unchanging 
old  board  residence  in  Fulham  where  her  mother  had 
stayed  with  her  whenever  she  came  up  to  town,  excited 
and  conscious  of  being  on  the  spree. 

Two  spinsters  of  no  age  discussed  the  fog.  Both  were 
immaculate  and  sat  rigidly  in  correct  attitudes  facing 
their  plates.  Both  talked  quickly  and  continuously  in 
soft  but  high  tones.  They  passed  one  another  the  salt 
with  the  courtesy  of  abbes  taking  pinches  of  snuff.  A 
young  man  from  the  Midlands  explained  to  the  owner  ot 
the  clerical  hat  that  under  certain  circumstances  his  food 
would  cost  him  more.  Near  by  a  heavy  man  solemnly  and 
steadily  ate,  wiping  at  times  from  his  beard  drops  of 
gravy  and  sauce,  whilst  his  faded  wife  nibbled  disconsol- 
ately tiny  scraps  of  crust.  These  she  daintily  buttered, 
while  her  four  lanky  girls  nudged  and  whispered. 

Victoria  did  not  stay  in  the  conservatory  after  the  im- 
portant meal.  As  she  passed  through  it,  a  mist  of  weari- 
ness gathering  before  her  eyes,  she  had  a  vision  of  half 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  19 

a  dozen  men  sleeping  in  cane  chairs,  or  studying  pink 
or  white  evening  papers.  The  young  man  from  the  Mid- 
lands had  captured  another  victim  and  was  once  more 
explaining  that  under  certain  circumstances  his  food 
would  cost  him  more. 

Victoria  seemed  to  have  reached  the  limits  of  physical 
endurance.  She  fumbled  as  she  divested  herself  of  her 
clothes;  she  could  not  even  collect  enough  energy  to 
wash.  All  the  room  seemed  filled  with  haze.  Her  tongue 
clove  to  her  palate.  Little  tingles  in  her  eyelids  crushed 
them  together  over  her  pupils.  She  stumbled  into  her 
bed,  mechanically  switching  off  the  light  by  her  bedside. 
In  the  very  act  her  arm  lost  its  energy  and  she  sank  into 
a  dreamless  sleep. 

Next  morning  she  breakfasted  with  good  appetite.  The 
fog  had  almost  entirely  lifted  and  sunshine  soft  as  silver 
was  filtering  through  the  windows  into  the  little  dining- 
room.  Its  mahoganous  ugliness  was  almost  warmed  into 
charm.  The  sideboard  shone  dully  through  Hs  covering 
of  coarse  net.  Even  the  stacked  cruets  remembered  the 
days  when  they  cunningly  blazed  in  a  shop  window.  A 
pleasurable  feeling  of  excitement  ran  through  Victoria's 
body,  for  she  was  going  to  discover  London,  to  have  ad- 
ventures. As  she  closed  the  door  behind  her  with  a  defin- 
ite little  slam  she  felt  like  a  buccaneer. 

Buccaneering  in  the  Edgware  Road,  even  when  it  is 
bathed  in  the  morning  sun,  soon  falls  flat  in  November. 
It  came  upon  Victoria  rather  as  a  shock  that  her  Indian 
clothing  was  rather  thin.  As  her  flying  visits  to  town 
had  only  left  in  her  mind  a  very  hazy  picture  of  Regent 
Street  it  was  quite  unconsciously  that  she  entered  the 
emporium  opposite.  A  frigid  young  lady  sacrificed  for 
her  benefit  an  abominable  vicuna  coat  which,  she  said, 
fitted  Victoria  like  a  glove.  Victoria  paid  the  twenty 
seven  and  six  with  an  admirable  feeling  of  recklessness 
and  left  the  shop  reflecting  that  she  looked  the  complete 
charwoman. 

She  turned  into  Hyde  Park,  where  the  gentle  wind 
was  sorrowfully  driving  the  brown  and  broken  leaves 
along  the  rough  gravel.  The  thin  tracery  of  the  trees 


20  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

imaged  itself  on  the  road  like  a  giant  cobweb.  Victoria 
looked  for  a  moment  towards  the  south  where  the  massive 
buildings  rise,  towards  the  east  where  a  cathedral  thrusts 
into  the  sky  a  tower  that  suspiciously  recalls  waterworks. 
She  drank  in  the  cold  air  with  a  gusto  that  can  be  under- 
stood by  none  save  those  who  have  learned  to  live  in  the 
floating  moisture  of  the  plains.  She  felt  young  and,  in 
the  sunshine,  with  her  cheeks  gaining  colour  as  the  wind 
whipped  them,  she  looked  in  her  long  black  coat  and 
broad  brimmed  straw  hat,  like  a  Quakeress  in  love. 

As  she  walked  down  towards  the  Achilles  statue  the 
early  morning  panorama  of  London  unfolded  itself  be- 
fore her  un-understanding  eyes.  Girls  hurried  by  with 
their  satchels  towards  the  typewriting  rooms  of  the  west; 
they  stole  a  look  at  Victoria's  face  but  quickly  turned 
away  from  her  clothes.  Now  and  then  spruce  young 
clerks  walking  to  the  Tube  slackened  their  pace  to  look 
twice  into  her  grey  eyes;  one  or  two  looked  back,  not  so 
much  in  the  hope  of  an  adventure,  for  time  could  not  be 
snatched  for  Venus  herself  on  the  way  to  the  office,  as  to 
see  whether  they  could  carry  away  with  them  the  flattery 
of  having  been  noticed. 

In  a  sense  that  first  day  in  London  was  for  Victoria  a 
day  of  revelations.  Having  despatched  a  telegram  to  her 
brother  to  announce  her  arrival  she  felt  that  the  day  was 
hers.  Ted  had  not  troubled  to  meet  her  either  at  South- 
ampton or  Waterloo:  it  was  not  likely  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed the  sightings  of  her  ship.  The  next  day  being  a 
Saturday,  however,  he  would  probably  come  up  from  the 
Bedfordshire  school  where  he  proffered  Latin  to  an  un- 
grateful generation. 

Victoria's  excursions  to  London  had  been  so  few  that 
she  had  but  the  faintest  idea  of  where  she  was  to  go. 
Knowing,  however,  that  one  cannot  lose  oneself  in  Lon- 
don, she  walked  aimlessly  towards  the  east.  It  was  a 
voyage  of  discovery.  Piccadilly,  bathed  in  the  pale  sun, 
revealed  itself  as  a  land  where  luxury  flows  like  rivers 
of  milk.  Victoria,  being  a  true  woman,  could  not  pass 
a  shop.  Thus  her  progress  was  slow,  so  slow  that  when 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  21 

she  found  herself  between  the  lions  of  Trafalgar  Square 
she  began  to  realise  that  she  wanted  her  lunch. 

The  problem  of  food  is  cruel  for  all  women  who  desire 
more  than  a  bun.  They  risk  either  inattention  or  over- 
attention,  and  if  they  follow  other  women,  they  almost 
invariably  discover  the  cheap  and  bad.  Victoria  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment  on  the  steps  of  an  oyster  shop,  as 
nervous  in  the  presence  of  her  first  plunge  into  freedom 
as  a  novice  at  the  side  door  of  a  pawnbroker.  A  man 
passed  by  her  into  the  oyster  shop,  smoking  a  pipe.  She 
felt  she  would  never  dare  to  sit  in  a  room  where  strange 
men  smoked  pipes.  Thus  she  stood  for  a  moment  for- 
lorn on  the  pavement,  until  a  memory  of  the  only  decent 
grill  in  town,  according  to  Bobby,  passed  through  her 
mind. 

A  policeman  sent  her  by  bus  to  the  New  Gaiety,  pa- 
tronised by  Bobby  and  his  cronies.  As  Victoria  went 
down  the  interminable  underground  staircase,  and  espe- 
cially as  she  entered  the  enormous  room  where  paper, 
carpets,  and  plate  always  seem  new,  her  courage  almost 
failed  her.  Indeed  she  looked  round  anxiously,  half  hop- 
ing that  the  anonymous  Bobby  might  be  revisiting  his 
old  haunts.  But  she  was  quite  alone,  and  it  was  only 
by  reminding  herself  that  she  must  always  be  alone  at 
meals  now  that  she  coerced  herself  into  sitting  down.  She 
got  through  her  meal  with  expedition.  She  felt  fright- 
fully small;  the  waiters  were  painfully  courteous;  a  man 
laid  aside  his  orange-coloured  newspaper,  and  embarrassed 
her  with  frequent  side  glances.  She  braced  herself  up 
however.  "I  am  training,"  was  her  uppermost  thought. 
She  then  wondered  whether  she  ought  to  have  come  to 
the  New  Gaiety  at  all.  Fortunately  it  was  only  at  the 
very  end  of  her  lunch  that  Victoria  realised  she  was  the 
only  woman  sitting  alone.  After  this  discovery  her  nerve 
failed  her.  She  got  up  hurriedly,  and,  in  her  confusion, 
omitted  to  tip  the  waiter.  At  the  desk  the  last  stone  was 
heaped  on  the  cairn  of  her  discomfiture  when  the  cashier 
politely  returned  to  her  a  quarter  rupee  which  she  had 
given  her  thinking  it  was  a  sixpence. 

With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  Victoria  resumed  her  walk 


22  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

through  London.  She  was  a  little  tired  already  but  she 
could  think  of  nothing  to  do,  nowhere  to  go  to.  She  did 
not  want  to  return  to  Curran's  to  sit  in  her  box-like  room, 
or  to  look  at  the  two  spinsters  availing  themselves  of  their 
holiday  in  town  to  play  patience  in  the  conservatory. 

All  the  afternoon,  therefore,  Victoria  saw  the  sights. 
Covent  Garden  repelled  her  by  the  massiveness  of  its 
food  suggestion,  and  especially  by  the  choking  dirt  of 
its  lanes.  After  Covent  Garden,  Savoy  courtyard  and 
its  announcements  of  intellectual  plays  by  unknown 
women.  Then  once  more,  drawn  by  its  spaciousness 
guessed  at  through  Spring  Gardens,  Victoria  walked  into 
Saint  James's  Park.  She  rested  awhile  upon  a  seat,  watch- 
ing the  waterfowl  strut  and  plume  themselves,  the  peli- 
cans flounder  heavily  in  the  mud.  She  was  tired.  The 
sun  was  setting  early.  The  magic  slowly  faded  from  Lon- 
don; Buckingham  Palace  lost  the  fictitious  grace  that  it 
has  when  set  in  a  blue  sky.  Victoria  shivered  a  little. 
She  felt  tired.  She  did  not  know  where  to  go.  She  was 
alone.  On  the  seat  nearest  to  hers  two  lovers  sat  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand.  The  man's  face  was  almost  hidden 
by  his  cap  and  by  the  blue  puffs  of  his  pipe;  the  girl's 
was  averted  towards  the  ground  where,  with  the  ferule  of 
her  umbrella,  she  lazily  drew  signs.  There  was  no  bitter- 
ness in  this  sight  for  Victoria.  Her  romance  had  come 
and  gone  so  long  ago  that  she  looked  quite  casually  at 
these  wanderers  in  Arcadia.  She  only  knew  that  she 
was  alone  and  cold. 

Victoria  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  park.  It  was 
darkening,  and  little  by  little  the  lights  of  London  were 
springing  into  life.  By  dint  of  many  questionings  she 
managed  to  regain  Oxford  Street,  that  spinal  column  of 
London  without  which  the  stranger  would  be  lost.  Then 
her  course  was  easy,  and  it  was  with  a  peculiar  feeling 
of  luxuriousness  that  she  resigned  herself  to  the  motor 
bus  that  jolted  and  shook  her  tired  body  until  she  reached 
the  Arch.  More  slowly,  and  with  diminished  optimism, 
she  found  her  way  up  Edgware  Road,  where  night  was 
now  falling.  The  emporium  was  dazzling  with  lights. 
Alone  the  public  house  rivalled  it  and  thrust  its  glare 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  23 

through  the  settling  mist.  Victoria  closed  the  door  of 
Curran's.  At  once  she  re-entered  its  atmosphere;  into 
the  warm  air  rose  the  three  smells  of  three  legs  of  mutton. 

CHAPTER  V 

"MR.  WREN,  ma'am." 

Victoria  turned  quickly  to  Carlotta.  The  girl's  face 
was  obtrusively  demure.  Some  years  at  Curran's  had  not 
dulled  in  her  the  interest  that  any  woman  subtly  feels  in 
the  meeting  of  the  sexes. 

"Ask  him  to  come  in  here,  Carlotta,"  said  Victoria. 
"We  shan't  be  disturbed,  shall  we?" 

"Oh,  no!  ma'am,"  said  Carlotta,  with  increasing  de- 
mureness.  "There  is  nobody,  nobody.  I  will  show  the 
young  gentleman  in." 

Victoria  walked  to  the  looking-glass  which  shyly  peeped 
out  from  the  back  of  the  monumental  sideboard.  She 
re-arranged  her  hair  and  hurriedly  flicked  some  dust 
from  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  All  this  for  Edward,  but 
she  had  not  seen  him  for  three  years.  As  she  turned 
round  she  was  confronted  by  her  brother  who  had  gently 
stolen  into  the  dining-room.  Edward's  every  movement 
was  unobtrusive.  He  put  one  arm  round  her  and  kissed 
her  cheek. 

"How  are  you,  Victoria?"  he  said,  looking  her  in  the 
eyes. 

'  "Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Ted.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you."  She 
was  genuinely  glad;  it  was  so  good  to  have  belongings 
once  again. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  passage?"  asked  Edward. 

"Pretty  good  until  we  got  to  Ushant  and  then  it  did 
blow.  I  was  glad  to  get  home." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Edward,  "very  glad. 
His  eyes  fixed  on  the  sideboard  as  if  he  were  mesmerised 
by  the  cruets.  Victoria  looked  at  him  critically.  Three 
years  had  not  made  on  him  the  smallest  impression.  He 
was  at  twenty-eight  what  he  had  been  at  twenty-five  or 
for  the  matter  of  that  at  eighteen.  He  was  a  tall  slim 
figure  with  narrow  pointed  shoulders  and  a  slightly  bowed 


24  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

back.  His  face  was  pale  without  being  unhealthy;  There 
was  nothing  in  his  countenance  to  arouse  any  particular 
interest,  for  he  had  those  average  features  that  commit 
no  man  either  to  coarseness  or  to  intellectuality.  He 
showed  no  trace  of  the  massiveness  of  his  sister's  chin; 
his  mouth  too  was  looser  and  hung  a  little  open.  Alone 
his  eyes,  richly  grey,  recalled  his  relationship.  Straggly 
fair  hair  fell  across  the  left  side  of  his  forehead.  He 
peered  through  silver  rimmed  spectacles  as  he  nervously 
worried  his  watch  chain  with  both  hands.  Every  move- 
ment exposed  the  sharpness  of  his  knees  through  his  worn 
trousers. 

"Ted,"  said  Victoria,  breaking  in  upon  the  silence,  "it 
was  kind  of  you  to  come  up  at  once." 

"Of  course  I'd  come  up  at  once.  I  couldn't  leave  you 
here  alone.  It  must  be  a  big  change  after  the  sunshine." 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria  slowly,  "it  is  a  big  change.  Not 
only  the  sunshine.  Other  things,  you  know." 

Edward's  hands  played  still  more  nervously  with  his 
watch  chain.  He  had  not  heard  much  of  the  manner  of 
Fulton's  death.  Victoria's  serious  face  encouraged  him 
to  believe  that  she  might  harrow  him  with  details,  weep 
even.  He  feared  any  expression  of  feeling,  not  because 
he  was  hard  but  because  it  was  so  difficult  to  know  what 
to  say.  He  was  neither  hard  nor  soft;  he  was  a  school- 
master and  could  deal  readily  enough  with  the  pangs  of 
Andromeda  but  what  should  he  say  to  a  live  woman,  his 
sister  too? 

"I  understand — I — you  see,  it's  quite  awful  about 
Dick — "  he  stopped,  lost,  groping  for  the  proper  senti- 
ment. 

"Ted,"  said  Victoria,  "don't  condole  with  me.  I  don't 
want  to  be  unkind — if  you  knew  everything —  But  there, 
I'd  rather  not  tell  you;  poor  Dicky's  dead  and  I  suppose 
it's  wrong,  but  I  can't  be  sorry." 

Edward  looked  at  her  with  some  disapproval.  The 
marriage  had  not  been  a  success,  he  knew  that  much,  but 
she  ought  not  to  speak  like  that.  He  felt  he  ought  to 
reprove  her,  but  the  difficulty  of  finding  words  stopped 
him. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  25 

"Have  you  made  any  plans?"  he  asked  in  his  em- 
barrassment, thus  blundering  into  the  subject  he  had  in- 
tended to  lead  up  to  with  infinite  tact. 

"Plans?"  said  Victoria.  "Well,  not  exactly.  Of  course 
I  shall  have  to  work;  I  thought  you  might  help  me  per- 
haps." 

Edward  looked  at  her  again  uneasily.  She  had  sat 
down  in  an  armchair  by  the  side  of  the  fire  with  her  back 
to  the  light.  In  the  penumbra  her  eyes  came  out  like 
dark  pools.  A  curl  rippled  over  one  of  her  ears.  She 
looked  so  self-possessed  that  his  embarrassment  increased. 

"Will  you  have  .to  work?"  he  asked.  The  idea  of  his 
sister  working  filled  him  with  vague  annoyance. 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  I  can  help  it,"  said  Victoria 
smiling.  "You  see,  I've  got  nothing,  absolutely  nothing. 
When  I've  spent  the  thirty  pounds  or  so  I've  got,  I  must 
either  earn  my  own  living  or  go  into  the  workhouse." 
She  spoke  lightly,  but  she  was  conscious  of  a  peculiar 
sinking. 

"I  thought  you  might  come  back  with  me,"  said  Ed- 
ward, "...  and  stay  with  me  a  little  .  .  .  and 
look  round." 

"Ted,  it's  awfully  kind  of  you,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
let  you  saddle  yourself  with  me.  I  can't  be  your  house- 
keeper; oh!  it  would  never  do.  And  don't  you  think 
I  am  more  likely  to  get  something  to  do  here  than  down 
in  Bedfordshire?" 

"I  do  want  you  to  come  back  with  me,"  said  Edward 
hesitatingly.  "I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  alone  here. 
And  perhaps  I  could  find  you  something  in  a  family  at 
Cray  or  thereabouts.  I  could  ask  the  vicar." 

Victoria  shuddered.  It  had  never  struck  her  that  em- 
ployment might  be  difficult  to  find  or  uncongenial  when 
one  found  it.  The  words  "vicar"  and  "Cray"  suggested 
something  like  domestic  service  without  its  rights,  gen- 
tility without  its  privileges. 

"Ted,"  she  said  gravely,  "you're  awfully  good  to  me, 
but  I'd  rather  stay  here.  I'm  sure  I  could  find  something 
to  do."  Edward's  thoughts  naturally  came  back  to  his 
own  profession. 


26  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"I'll  ask  the  Head,"  he  said  with  the  first  flash  of 
animation  he  had  shown  since  he  entered  the  room.  To 
ask  the  Head  was  to  go  to  the  source  of  all  knowledge. 
"Perhaps  he  knows  a  school.  Of  course  your  French  is 
pretty  good,  isn't  it?" 

"Ted,  Ted,  you  do  forget  things,"  said  Victoria,  laugh- 
ing. "Don't  you  remember  the  mater  insisting  on  my 
taking  German  because  so  few  girls  did?  Why,  it  was 
the  only  original  thing  she  ever  did  in  her  life,  poor 
dear!" 

"But  nobody  wants  German,  for  girls  that  is,"  replied 
Edward  miserably. 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Victoria,  "I  won't  teach;  that's 
all.  I  must  do  something  else." 

Edward  walked  up  and  down  nervously,  pushing  back 
his  thin  fair  hair  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  nerv- 
ously tugging  at  his  watch  chain. 

"Don't  worry  yourself,  Ted,"  said  Victoria.  "Some- 
thing will  turn  up.  Besides  there's  no  hurry.  Why,  I 
can  live  two  or  three  months  on  my  money,  can't  I?" 

"I  suppose  you  can,"  said  Edward  gloomily,  "but  what 
will  you  do  afterwards?" 

"Earn  some  more,"  said  Victoria.  "Now  Ted,  you 
haven't  see  me  for  three  years.  Don't  let  us  worry.  Think 
things  over  when  you  get  back  to  Cray  and  write  to  me. 
You  won't  go  back  until  to-morrow,  will  you?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Edward,  "but  I  didn't  think  you'd 
be  back  this  week.  I  shall  be  in  charge  to-morrow.  Why 
don't  you  come  down?" 

"Ted,  Ted,  how  can  you  suggest  that  I  should  spend 
my  poor  little  fortune  in  railway  fares!  Well,  if  you 
can't  stay,  you  can't.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do. 
I  can't  go  on  paying  two  and  a  half  guineas  a  week  here; 
I  must  get  some  rooms.  You  lived  here  when  you  taught 
at  that  school  in  the  city,  didn't  you?  Well,  then,  you 
must  know  all  about  it:  we'll  go  house-hunting." 

Edward  looked  at  her  dubiously.  He  disliked  the 
idea  of  Victoria  in  rooms  almost  as  much  as  Victoria  at 
Curran's.  It  offended  some  vague  notions  of  propriety. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  27 

However  her  suggestion  would  give  him  time  to  think. 
Perhaps  she  was  right. 

"Of  course,  I'll  be  glad  to  help,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
know  much  about  it;  I  used  to  live  in  Gower  Street."  A 
faint  flush  of  reminiscent  excitement  rose  to  his  cheeks. 
Gower  Street,  by  the  side  of  Cray  and  Lymptom,  had  been 
almost  adventurous. 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Victoria,  "we  shall  go  to  Gower 
Street  first.  Just  wait  till  I  put  on  my  hat." 

She  ran  upstairs,  not  exactly  light  of  heart,  but  pleased 
with  the  idea  of  house-hunting.  There's  romance  in  all 
seeking,  even  if  the  treasure  is  to  be  found  in  a  Blooms- 
bury  lodging-house. 

The  ride  on  the  top  of  the  motor  bus  was  exhilarating. 
The  pale  sun  of  November  was  lighting  up  the  streets 
with  the  almost  mystic  whiteness  of  the  footlights.  Ed- 
ward said  nothing,  for  his  memories  of  London  were  stale 
and  he  did  not  feel  secure  enough  to  point  out  the  Church 
of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb,  nor  had  he  ever  known  his  London 
well  enough  to  be  able  to  pronounce  judgment  on  the 
shops.  Besides,  Victoria  was  too  much  absorbed  in  gazing 
at  London  rolling  and  swirling  beneath  her,  belching  out 
its  crowds  of  workers  and  pleasure  seekers  from  every 
tube  and  main  street.  At  every  shop  the  omnibus  seemed 
surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  angry  bees.  Victoria  watched 
them  struggle  with  spirit  still  unspoiled,  wondering  at  the 
determination  on  the  faces  of  the  men,  at  the  bitterness 
painted  on  the  sharp  features  of  the  women  as  they 
savagely  thrust  one  another  aside  and,  dishevelled  and 
dusty,  successively  conquered  their  seats.  All  this,  the 
constant  surge  of  horse  and  mechanical  conveyances,  the 
shrill  cries  of  the  newsboys  flashing  pink  papers  like 
chulos  at  an  angry  bull,  the  roar  of  the  town,  made  Vic- 
toria understand  the  city.  Something  like  fear  of  this 
strong  restless  people  crept  into  her  as  she  began  to  have 
a  dim  perception  that  she  too  would  have  to  fight.  She 
was  young,  however,  and  the  feeling  was  not  unpleasant. 
Her  nerves  tingled  a  little  as  she  thought  of  the  struggle 
to  come  and  the  inevitable  victory  at  the  end. 

Victoria's  spirits  had  not  subsided  even  when  she  en- 


28  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

tered  Gower  Street.  Its  immensity,  its  interminable 
length  frightened  her  a  little.  The  contrast  between  it, 
so  quiet,  dignified  and  dull,  and  the  inferno  she  had  just 
left  behind  her  impressed  her  with  a  sense  of  security. 
Its  houses,  however,  seemed  so  high  and  dirty  that  she 
wondered,  looking  at  its  thousand  windows,  whether 
human  beings  could  be  cooped  up  thus  and  yet  retain 
their  humanity. 

Here  Edward  was  a  little  more  in  his  element.  With 
a  degree  of  animation  he  pointed  to  the  staid  beauty  of 
Bedford  Square.  He  demanded  admiration  like  a  native 
guiding  a  stranger  in  his  own  town.  Victoria  watched 
him  curiously.  He  was  a  good  fellow  but  it  was  odd  to 
hear  him  raise  his  voice  and  to  see  him  point  with  his 
stick.  He  had  always  been  quiet,  so  she  had  not  ex- 
pected him  to  show  as  much  interest  as  he  did  in  his 
old  surroundings. 

"I  suppose  you  had  a  good  time  when  you  were  here?" 
she  said. 

"Nothing  special.  I  was  too  busy  at  the  school,"  he 
replied.  "But,  of  course,  you  know,  one  does  things  in 
London.  It's  not  very  lively  at  Cray." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  leave  Cray,"  she  said,  "and 
come  back?" 

Edward  paused  nervously.  London  frightened  him  a 
little  and  the  idea  of  leaving  Cray  suddenly  thrust  upon 
him  froze  him  to  the  bone.  It  was  not  Cray  he  loved, 
but  Cray  meant  a  life  passing  gently  away  by  the  side 
of  a  few  beloved  books.  Though  he  had  never  realised 
that  hedgerows  flower  in  the  spring  and  that  trees  redden 
to  gold  and  copper  in  the  autumn,  the  country  had  taken 
upon  him  so  great  a  hold  that  even  the  thought  of  leaving 
it  was  pain. 

"Oh!  no,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  couldn't  leave  Cray. 
I  couldn't  live  here,  it's  too  noisy.  There  are  my  old 
rooms,  there,  the  house  with  the  torch  extinguishers." 

Victoria  looked  at  him  again.  What  curious  tricks 
does  nature  play  and  how  strangely  she  pleases  to  distort 
her  own  work!  Then  she  looked  at  the  house  with  the 
extinguishers.  Clearly  it  would  be  impossible,  but  for 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  20 

those  aristocratic  remains,  to  distinguish  it  from  among 
half  a  dozen  of  its  fellows.  It  was  a  house,  that  was  all. 
It  was  faced  in  dirty  brick,  parted  at  every  floor  by  stone 
work.  A  portico,  rising  over  six  stone  steps,  protected 
a  door  painted  brown  and  bearing  a  brass  knocker.  It 
had  windows,  an  area,  bells.  It  was  impossible  to  find 
in  it  an  individual  detail  to  remember. 

But  Edward  was  talking  almost  excitedly  for  him. 
"See  there,"  he  said,  "those  are  my  old  rooms,"  pointing 
indefinitely  at  the  frontage.  "They  were  quite  decent, 
,  you  know.  Wonder  whether  they're  let.  You  could  have 
them."  He  looked  almost  sentimentally  at  the  home  of 
the  Wrens. 

"Why  not  ring  and  ask?"  said  Victoria,  whose  resource- 
fulness equalled  that  of  Mr.  Dick. 

Edward  took  another  loving  look  at  the  familiar  win- 
dow, strode  up  the  steps,  followed  by  Victoria. 

There  were  several  bells.  "Curious,"  he  said,  "she 
must  have  let  it  out  in  floors;  Wakefield  and  Grindlay, 
don't  know  them.  Seymour?  It's  Mrs.  Brumfit's  house: 
Oh!  here  it  is."  He  pressed  a  bell  marked  "House." 
Victoria  heard  with  a  curious  sensation  of  unexpectedness 
the  sudden  shrill  sound  of  the  electric  bell. 

After  an  interminable  interval,  during  which  Edward's 
hands  nervously  played,  the  door  opened.  A  young  girl 
stood  on  the  threshold.  She  wore  a  red  cloth  blouse,  a 
black  skirt,  and  an  unspeakably  dirty  apron  half  loose 
round  her  waist.  Her  hair  was  tightly  done  up  in  curlers 
in  expectation  of  Sunday. 

"Mrs.  Brumfit,"  said  Edward,  "is  she  in?" 

"  'oo?"  said  the  girl. 

"Mrs.  Brumfit,  the  landlady,"  said  Edward. 

"Don't  know  'er,  try  next  'ouse."  The  girl  tried  to 
shut  the  door. 

"You  don't  understand,"  cried  Edward,  stopping  the 
door  with  his  hand.  "I  used  to  live  here." 

"Well,  wot  do  yer  want?"  replied  the  girl.  "Can't 
'elp  that,  can  I?  There  ain't  no  Mrs.  Brumfit  'ere. 
Only  them  there."  She  pointed  at  the  bells.  "Nobody 
but  them  and  mother.  She's  the  'ousekeeper.  If  yer 


30  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

mean  the  old  woman  as  was  'ere  when  they  turned  the 
'ouse  into  flats,  she's  dead." 

Edward  stepped  back.  The  girl  shut  the  door  with  a 
slam.  He  stood  as  if  pertrified.  Victoria  looked  at  him 
with  amusement  in  her  eyes,  listening  to  the  echoes  of 
the  girl's  voice  singing  more  and  more  faintly  some  catchy 
tune  as  she  descended  into  the  basement. 

"Dead,"  said  Edward,  "can  it  be  possible—?"  He 
looked  like  a  plant  torn  up  by  the  roots.  He  had  jumped 
on  the  old  ground  and  it  had  given  way. 

"My  dear  Ted,"  said  Victoria  gently,  "things  change, 
you  see."  Slowly  they  went  down  the  steps  of  the  house. 
Victoria  did  not  speak,  for  a  strange  mixture  of  pity  and 
disdain  was  in  her.  She  quite  understood  that  a  tie  had 
been  severed  and  that  the  death  of  his  old  landlady 
meant  for  Edward  that  the  past  which  he  had  vaguely 
loved  had  died  with  her.  He  was  one  of  those  amor- 
phous creatures  whose  life  is  so  interwoven  with  that  of 
their  fellows  that  any  death  throws  it  into  disarray.  She 
let  him  brood  over  his  lost  memories  until  they  reached 
Bedford  Square. 

"But  Ted,"  she  broke  in,  "where  am  I  to  go?" 

Edward  looked  at  her  as  if  dazed.  Clearly  he  had 
not  foreseen  that  Mrs.  Brumfit  was  not  an  institution. 

"Go?"  he  said,  "I  don't  know." 

"Don't  you  know  any  other  lodgings?"  asked  Victoria. 
"Gower  Street  seems  full  of  them." 

"Oh!  no,"  said  Edward  quickly,  "we  don't  know  what 
sort  of  places  they  are.  You  couldn't  go  there." 

"But  where  am  I  to  go  then?"  Victoria  persisted.  Ed- 
ward was  silent.  "It  seems  to  me,"  his  sister  went  on, 
"that  I  shall  have  to  risk  it.  After  all,  they  won't  murder 
me  and  they  can't  rob  me  of  much." 

"Please  don't  talk  like  that,"  said  Edward  stiffly.  He 
did  not  like  this  association  of  ideas. 

"Well  I  must  find  some  lodgings,"  said  Victoria,  a 
little  irritably.  "In  that  case  I  may  as  well  look  round 
near  Curran's.  I  don't  like  this  street  much." 

In  default  of  an  alternative,  Edward  looked  sulky. 
Victoria  felt  remorseful;  she  knew  that  Gower  Street 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  31 

must  have  become  for  her  brother  the  traveller's  Mecca 
and  that  he  was  vaguely  afraid  of  the  West  End. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  she  went  on  more  gently,  "don't 
worry  about  lodgings  any  more.  Do  you  know  what  you're 
going  to  do?  You're  going  to  take  me  to  tea  in  some  nice 
place  and  then  I'll  go  with  you  to  St.  Pancras;  that's 
the  station  you  said  you  were  going  back  by,  isn't  it? 
and  you'll  put  me  in  a  bus  and  I'll  go  home.  Now,  come 
along,  it's  past  five  and  I'm  dying  for  some  tea." 

As  Victoria  stood,  an  hour  later,  just  outside  the  sta- 
tion in  which  expires  the  spirit  of  Constantine  the  Great, 
she  could  not  help  feeling  relieved.  As  she  stood  there, 
so  self-possessed,  seeing  so  clearly  the  busy  world,  she 
wondered  why  she  had  been  given  a  broken  reed  to  lean 
upon.  Where  had  her  brother  left  his  virility?  Had  it 
been  sapped  by  years  of  self-restraint?  Had  the  formida- 
able  code  of  pretence,  the  daily  affectation  of  dignity,  the 
perpetual  giving  of  good  examples,  reduced  him  to  this 
shred  of  humanity,  so  timid,  so  resourceless?  As  she 
sped  home  in  the  tube  into  which  she  had  been  directed 
by  a  policeman,  she  vainly  turned  over  the  problem. 

Fortunately  Victoria  was  young.  As  she  laid  her  head 
on  the  pillow,  conscious  of  the  coming  of  Sunday,  when 
nothing  could  be  done,  visions  of  things  she  could  do 
obsessed  her.  There  were  lodgings  to  find,  nice,  clean, 
cheap  lodgings,  with  a  dear  old  landlady  and  trees  out- 
side the  window,  in  a  pretty  old-fashioned  house,  very 
very  quiet  and  quite  near  all  the  tubes.  She  nursed  the 
ideal  for  a  time.  Then  she  thought  of  careers.  She  would 
read  all  the  advertisements  and  pick  out  the  nicest  work. 
Perhaps  she  could  be  a  housekeeper.  Or  a  secretary. 
On  reflection,  a  secretary  would  be  better.  It  might  be 
so  interesting.  Fancy  being  secretary  to  a  member  of 
Parliament.  Or  to  a  famous  author. 

She  too  might  write. 

Her  dreams  were  pleasant. 


32  A  BED  OF  ROSES 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  WEEK  had  elapsed  and  Victoria  was  beginning  to  feel 
the  strain.  She  looked  out  from  the  window  into  the 
little  street  where  fine  rain  fell  gently  as  if  it  had  de- 
cided to  do  so  forever.  It  was  deserted,  save  by  a  cat 
who  shivered  and  crouched  under  the  archway  of  the 
mews.  Sometimes  a  horse  stirred.  Through  the  open 
•window  the  hot  alcaline  smell  of  the  animals  filtered 
slowly. 

Victoria  had  found  her  lodgings.  They  were  not  quite 
the  ideal,  but  she  had  not  seen  the  ideal  and  this  little 
den  in  Portsea  Place  was  not  without  its  charms.  Her 
room,  for  the  "rooms"  had  turned  from  the  plural  into 
the  singular,  was  comfortable  enough.  It  occupied  the 
front  of  the  second  floor  in  a  small  house.  It  had  two 
windows,  from  which,  by  craning  out  a  little,  the  trees 
of  Connaught  Square  could  be  seen  standing  out  like 
black  skeletons  against  a  white  house.  Opposite  was  the 
archway  of  the  mews  out  of  which  came  most  of  the 
traffic  of  the  street.  Under  it  too  was  the  mart  where 
the  landladies  who  have  invaded  the  little  street  exchange 
notes  on  their  lodgers  and  boast  of  their  ailments. 

Victoria  inspected  her  domain.  She  had  a  very  big 
bed,  a  little  inclined  to  creak;  she  had  a  table  on  a 
pedestal  split  so  cunningly  at  the  base  that  she  was  al- 
ways table-conscious  when  she  sat  by  it;  she  had  a  ma- 
hogany washstand,  also  on  the  triangular  pedestal  loved 
by  the  pre-Morrisites,  enriched  by  a  white  marble  top 
and  splasher.  A  large  armchair,  smooth  and  rather 
treacherous,  a  small  mahogany  chest  of  drawers,  every 
drawer  of  which  took  a  minute  to  pull  out,  some  chairs 
of  no  importance,  completed  her  furniture.  The  carpet 
had  been  of  all  colours  and  was  now  of  none.  The  table- 
cloth was  blue  serge  and  would  have  been  serviceable  if 
it  had  not  contracted  the  habit  of  sliding  off  the  mahog- 
any table  whenever  it  was  touched.  Ugly  as  it  was  in 
every  detail,  Victoria  could  not  help  thinking  the  room 
comfortable;  its  light  paper  saved  it  and  it  was  not  over- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  33 

loaded  with  pictures.  It  had  escaped  with  one  text  and 
the  "Sailor's  Homecoming."  Besides  it  was  restrained 
in  colour  and  solid:  it  was  comfortable  like  roast  beef 
and  boiled  potatoes. 

Victoria  looked  at  all  these  things,  at  her  few  scattered 
books,  the  picture  of  Dick  and  of  a  group  of  school 
friends,  at  some  of  her  boots  piled  in  a  corner.  Then  she 
listened  and  heard  nothing.  Once  more  she  was  struck 
by  the  emptiness,  the  darkness  around  her.  She  was 
alone.  She  had  been  alone  a  whole  week,  hardly  knowing 
what  to  do.  The  excitement  of  choosing  lodgings  over, 
she  had  found  time  hang  heavy  on  her  hands.  She  had 
interminably  walked  in  London,  gazed  at  shop  windows, 
read  hundreds  of  imbecile  picture  postcards  on  bookstalls, 
gone  continually  to  many  places  in  omnibuses.  She  had 
stumbled  upon  South  Kensington  and  wandered  in  its 
catacombs  of  stone  and  brick.  She  had  discovered  Hamp- 
stead,  lost  herself  horribly  near  Albany  Street;  she  had 
even  unexpectedly  landed  in  the  City  where  rushing  mobs 
had  hustled  and  battered  her. 

Faithful  to  her  resolve  she  had  sedulously  read  the 
morning  papers  and  applied  for  several  posts  as  house- 
keeper without  receiving  any  answers.  She  had  realised 
that  answering  advertisements  must  be  an  art  and  had 
become  quite  conscious  that  employment  was  not  so  easy 
to  find  as  she  thought.  Nobody  seemed  to  want  secre- 
taries, except  the  limited  companies,  about  which  she 
was  not  quite  clear.  As  these  mostly  required  the  invest- 
ment of  a  hundred  pounds  or  more  she  had  not  followed 
them  up. 

She  paced  up  and  down  in  her  room.  The  afternoon 
was  wearing.  Soon  the  man  downstairs  would  come  back 
and  slam  the  door.  A  little  later  the  young  lady  in  the 
City  would  gently  enter  the  room  behind  hers  and,  after 
washing  in  an  unobtrusive  manner,  would  discreetly  leave 
for  an  hour.  Meanwhile  nothing  broke  the  silence,  except 
the  postman's  knock  coming  nearer  and  nearer  along 
Portsea  Place.  It  fell  unheeded  even  on  her  own  front 
door,  for  Victoria's  ears  were  already  attuned  to  the 
sound.  It  meant  nothing. 


34  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  walked  up  and  down  nervously.  She  looked  at 
herself  in  the  glass.  She  was  pretty  she  thought,  with 
her  creamy  skin  and  thick  hair;  her  eyes  too  were  good; 
what  a  pity  her  chin  was  so  thick.  That's  why  Dicky 
•used  to  call  her  "Towzer."  Poor  old  Dicky! 

Shuffling  footsteps  rose  up  the  stairs.  Then  a  knock. 
At  Victoria's  invitation,  a  woman  entered.  It  was  Mrs. 
Bell,  the  landlady. 

"Why,  ma'am,  you're  sitting  in  the  dark!  Let  me 
light  the  lamp,"  cried  Mrs.  Bell,  producing  a  large  wooden 
box  from  a  capacious  front  pocket.  She  lit  the  lamp 
and  a  yellow  glow  filled  the  room,  except  the  corners 
which  remained  in  darkness. 

"Here's  a  letter  for  you,  'ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Bell  hold- 
ing it  out.  As  Victoria  took  it,  Mrs.  Bell  beamed  on 
her  approvingly.  She  liked  her  new  lodger.  She  had 
already  informed  the  gathering  under  the  archway  that 
she  was  a  real  lady.  She  had  a  leaning  for  real  ladies, 
having  been  a  parlourmaid  previous  to  marrying  a  butler 
and  eking  out  his  income  by  letting  rooms. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  Victoria,  "it  was  kind 
of  you  to  come  up." 

"Oh!  ma'am,  no  trouble  I  can  assure  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Bell,  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  patronage.  She 
wanted  to  be  kind  to  her  lodger,  but  she  found  a  difficulty 
in  being  kind  to  so  real  a  lady. 

Victoria  saw  the  letter  was  from  Edward  and  opened 
it  hurriedly.  Mrs.  Bell  hesitated,  looking  with  her  black 
dress,  clean  face  and  grey  hair,  the  picture  of  the  re- 
spectable maid.  Then  she  turned  and  struggled  out  on 
her  worn  shoes,  the  one  blot  on  her  neatness.  Victoria 
read  the  letter,  bending  perilously  over  the  lamp  which 
smoked  like  a  funnel.  The  letter  was  quite  short;  it  ran: 

"My  dear  Victoria, — I  am  sorry  I  could  not  write  be- 
fore now,  but  I  wanted  to  have  some  news  to  give  you. 
I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  been  able  to  interest  the 
vicar1  on  your  behalf.  He  informs  me  that  if  you  will 
call  at  once  on  Lady  Rockham,  ya  Queen's  Gate,  South 
Kensington,  S.W.,  she  may  be  in  a  position  to  find  you 
a  post  in  a  family  of  standing.  He  tells  me  she  is  most 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  35 

capable  and  kind.     He  is  writing  to  her.    I  shall  come 
to  London  and  see  you  soon. — Yours  affectionately, 

EDWARD." 

Victoria  fingered  the  letter  lovingly.  Perhaps  she  was 
going  to  have  a  chance  after  all.  It  was  good  to  have 
something  to  do.  Indeed  it  seemed  almost  too  good  to 
be  true;  she  had  vaguely  resigned  herself  to  unemploy- 
ment. Of  course  something  would  ultimately  turn  up, 
but  the  what  and  when  and  how  thereof  were  danger- 
ously dim.  She  hardly  cared  to  face  these  ideas;  indeed 
she  dismissed  them  when  they  occurred  to  her  with  a 
mixture  of  depression  and  optimism.  Now,  however,  she 
was  buoyant  again.  The  family  of  standing  would  prob- 
ably pay  well  and  demand  little.  It  would  mean  the 
theatres,  the  shops,  flowers,  the  latest  novels,  no  end  of 
nice  things.  A  little  work  too,  of  course,  driving  in  the 
Park  with  a  dear  dowager  with  the  most  lovely  white 
hair. 

She  ate  an  excellent  and  comparatively  expensive  din- 
ner in  an  Oxford  Street  restaurant  and  went  to  bed  early 
for  the  express  purpose  of  making  plans  until  she  fell 
asleep.  She  was  still  buoyant  in  the  morning.  Connaught 
Square  looked  its  best  and  even  South  Kensington's  stony 
face  melted  into  smiles  when  it  caught  sight  of  her.  Lady 
Rockham's  was  a  mighty  house,  the  very  house  for  a 
family  of  standing. 

Victoria  walked  up  the  four  steep  steps  of  the  houst 
where  something  of  her  fate  was  to  be  decided.  Sht 
hesitated  for  an  instant  and  then,  being  healthily  inclined 
to  take  plunges,  pulled  the  bell  with  a  little  more  vigoui 
than  was  in  her  heart.  It  echoed  tremendously.  The 
quietude  of  Queen's  Gate  stretching  apparently  for  miles 
towards  the  south,  increased  the  terrifying  noise.  Vic- 
toria's anticipations  were  half  pleasureable,  half  fear- 
some; she  felt  on  the  brink  of  an  adventure  and  recallec 
the  tremor  with  which  she  had  entered  the  New  Gaiet} 
for  the  first  time.  Measured  steps  came  nearer  and  nearei 
from  the  inside  of  the  house;  a  shape  silhouetted  itsel 
vaguely  on  the  stained  glass  of  the  door. 

She  mustered  sufficient  coolness  to  tell  the  butler  tha 


36  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

she  wished  to  see  Lady  Rockham,  who  was  probably 
expecting  her.  As  the  large  and  solid  man  preceded  her 
along  an  interminable  hall,  she  felt  rather  than  saw  the 
thick  Persian  rug  stretching  along  the  crude  mosaic  of 
the  floor,  the  red  paper  on  the  walls  almost  entirely  hid- 
den by  exceedingly  large  and  new  pictures.  Over  her 
head  a  ponderous  iron  chandelier  carrying  many  electric 
lamps  blotted  out  most  of  the  staircase. 

For  some  minutes  she  waited  in  the  dining-room  into 
which  she  had  been  shown;  for  the  butler  was  not  at  all 
certain,  from  a  look  at  the  visitor's  mourning,  that  she 
was  quite  entitled  to  the  boudoir.  Victoria's  square  chin 
and  steady  eyes  saved  her,  however,  from  having  to  ac- 
commodate her  spine  to  the  exceeding  perpendicularity 
of  the  high-backed  chairs  in  the  hall.  The  dining-room, 
ridiculous  thought,  reminded  her  of  Curran's.  In  every 
particular  it  seemed  the  same.  There  was  the  large  table 
with  the  thick  cloth  of  indefinite  design  and  colour.  The 
sideboard,  too,  was  there,  larger  and  richer  perhaps,  of 
Spanish  mahogany  not  an  inch  of  which  was  left  bare  of 
garlands  of  flowers  or  archangelic  faces.  It  carried  Cur- 
ran's looking-glass;  Curran's  cruets  were  replaced  by  a 
number  of  cups  which  proclaimed  that  Charles  Rockham 
had  once  won  the  Junior  Sculls,  and  more  recently,  the 
spring  handicap  of  the  Kidderwick  Golf  Club.  The  walls 
were  red  as  in  the  hall  and  profusely  decorated  with  large 
pictures  representing  various  generations  having  tea  in 
old  English  gardens,  decorously  garbed  Roman  ladies 
basking  by  the  side  of  marble  basins,  and  such  like  sub- 
jects. Twelve  chairs,  all  high  backed  and  heavily  groined, 
were  ranged  round  the  walls,  with  the  exception  of  a 
large  carving  chair,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
awaiting  one  who  was  clearly  the  head  of  a  household. 
Victoria  was  looking  pensively  at  the  large  black  marble 
clock  representing  the  temple  in  which  the  Lares  and 
Penates  of  South  Kensington  usually  dwell,  when  the 
door  opened  and  a  vigorous  rustle  entered  the  room. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Fulton,"  remarked 
the  owner  of  the  rustle.  'I  have  just  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Meaker,  the  vicar  of  Cray.  A  most  excellent 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  37 

man.  I  am  sure  we  can  do  something  for  you.  Some- 
thing quite  nice." 

Victoria  looked  at  Lady  Rockham  with  shyness  and 
surprise.  Never  had  she  seen  anything  so  majestic. 
Lady  Rockham  had  but  lately  attained  her  ladyhood  by 
marrying  a  knight  bachelor  whose  name  was  a  household 
word  in  the  wood-paving  world.  She  felt  at  peace  with 
the  universe.  Her  large  silk  clad  person  was  redolent 
with  content.  She  did  not  vulgarly  beam.  She  merely 
was.  On  her  capacious  bosom  large  brooches  rose  and 
fell  rhythmically.  Her  face  was  round  and  smooth  as 
her  voice.  Her  eyes  were  almost  severely  healthy. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Victoria.  "I 
don't  know  anybody  in  London,  you  see." 

"That  will  not  matter;  that  will  not  matter  at  all," 
said  Lady  Rockham.  "Some  people  prefer  those  whose 
connections  live  in  the  country,  yes,  absolutely  prefer 
them.  Why,  friends  come  to  me  every  day,  and  they 
are  clamouring  for  country  girls,  absolutely  clamouring. 
I  do  hope  you  are  not  too  particular.  For  things  are 
difficult  in  London.  So  very  difficult." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  murmured  Victoria,  thinking  of  her 
unanswered  applications.  "But  I'm  not  particular  at  all. 
If  you  can  find  me  anything  to  do,  Lady  Rockham,  I 
should  be  so  grateful." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  Now  let  me  see.  A  young  lady 
friend  of  mine  has  just  started  a  poultry  farm  in  Dorset. 
She  is  doing  very  well.  Oh!  very  well.  Of  course  you 
want  a  little  capital.  But  such  a  very  nice  occupation 
for  a  young  woman.  The  capital  is  often  the  difficulty. 
Perhaps  you  would  not  be  prepared  to  invest  much?" 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't,"  faltered  Victoria,  wonder- 
ing at  what  figure  capital  began. 

"No,  no,  quite  right,"  purred  Lady  Rockham,  "I  can 
see  you  are  quite  sensible.  It  is  a  little  risky,  too.  Yet 
my  young  friend  is  doing  well,  very  well,  indeed.  Her 
sister  is  in  Johannesburg.  She  went  out  as  a  governess 
and  now  she  is  married  to  a  mine  manager.  There  are 
so  few  girls  in  the  country.  Oh !  he  is  quite  a  nice  man, 
a  little  rough,  I  should  say,  but  quite  suitable." 


38  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  her  Lady- 
ship was  going  to  suggest  sending  her  out  to  Johannes- 
burg to  marry  a  mine  manager,  but  the  Presence  resumed. 

"No  doubt  you  would  rather  stay  in  London.  Things 
are  a  little  difficult  here,  but  very  pleasant,  very  pleasant 
indeed." 

"I  don't  mind  things  being  difficult,"  Victoria  broke 
in,  mustering  a  little  courage.  "I  must  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing and  I  don't  mind  what  I  do;  I'd  be  a  nursery  gov- 
erness, or  a  housekeeper,  or  companion.  I  haven't  got 
any  degrees,  I  couldn't  quite  be  a  governess,  but  I'd  try 
anything." 

"Certainly,  certainly,  I'm  sure  we  will  find  something 
very  nice  for  you.  I  can't  think  of  anybody  just  now 
but  leave  me  your  address.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as 
I  hear  of  anything."  Lady  Rockham  gently  crossed  her 
hands  over  her  waistband  and  benevolently  smiled  at  her 
protegee. 

Victoria  wrote  down  her  address  and  listened  patiently 
to  Lady  Rockham  who  discoursed  at  length  on  the  im- 
perfections of  the  weather,  the  noisiness  of  London  streets 
and  the  prowess  of  Charles  Rockham  on  the  Kidderwick 
links.  She  felt  conscious  of  having  to  return  thanks  for 
what  she  was  about  to  receive. 

Lady  Rockham 's  kindness  persisted  up  to  the  door  to 
which  she  showed  Victoria.  She  dismissed  her  with  the 
Parthian  shot  that  "they  would  find  something  for  her, 
something  quite  nice." 

Victoria  walked  away;  cold  gusts  of  wind  struck  her, 
chilling  her  to  the  bone,  catching  and  furling  her  skirts 
about  her.  She  felt  at  the  same  time  cheered  and  de- 
pressed. The  interview  had  been  inconclusive.  How- 
ever, as  she  walked  over  the  Serpentine  bridge,  under 
which  the  wind  was  angrily  ruffling  the  black  water,  a 
great  wave  of  optimism  came  over  her;  for  it  was  late, 
and  she  remembered  that  in  the  Edgware  Road,  there  was 
a  small  Italian  restaurant  where  she  was  about  to  lunch. 

It  was  well  for  Victoria  that  she  was  an  optimist  and 
a  good  sleeper,  for  November  had  waned  into  December 
before  anything  happened  to  disturb  the  tenor  of  her  life. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  39 

For  a  whole  fortnight  she  had  heard  nothing  from  Lady 
Rockham  or  from  Edward.  She  had  written  to  Molly 
but  had  received  no  answer.  All  day  long  the  knocker 
fell  with  brutal  emphasis  upon  the  doors  of  Portsea 
Place  and  brought  her  nothing.  She  did  not  think  much 
or  hope  much.  She  did  nothing  and  spent  little.  Her 
only  companion  was  Mrs.  Bell,  who  still  hovered  round 
her  mysterious  lodger,  so  ladylike  and  so  quiet. 

She  passed  hours  sometimes  at  the  window  watching 
the  stream  of  life  in  Portsea  Place.  The  stream  did  not 
flow  very  swifty;  its  principal  eddies  vanished  by  midday 
with  the  milkman  and  the  butcher.  The  postman  re- 
curred more  often  but  he  did  not  count.  Now  and  then 
the  policeman  passed  and  spied  suspiciously  into  the 
archway  where  the  landladies  no  longer  met.  Cabs  trotted 
into  it  now  and  then  to  change  horses. 

Victoria  watched  alone.  Beyond  Mrs.  Bell,  she  seemed 
to  know  nobody.  The  young  man  downstairs  continued 
to  be  invisible,  and  contented  himself  with  slamming  the 
door.  The  young  lady  in  the  back  room  continued  to 
wash  discreetly  and  to  snore  gently  at  night.  Sometimes 
Victoria  ventured  abroad  to  be  bitten  by  the  blast.  Some- 
times she  strayed  over  the  town  in  the  intervals  of  food. 
She  had  to  exercise  caution  in  this,  for  an  aspect  of  the 
lodging  house  fire  had  only  lately  dawned  upon  her.  If 
she  did  not  order  it  at  all  she  was  met  on  the  threshold 
by  darkness  and  cold;  if  she  ordered  it  for  a  given  time 
she  was  so  often  late  that  she  returned  to  find  it  dead  or 
kept  up  wastefully  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a  scuttle.  This 
trouble  was  chronic;  on  bitter  days  it  seemed  to  dog  her 
footsteps. 

She  had  almost  grown  accustomed  to  loneliness.  Alone 
she  watched  at  her  window  or  paced  the  streets.  She  had 
established  a  quasi-right  to  a  certain  seat  at  the  Italian 
restaurant  where  the  waiters  had  ceased  to  speculate  as 
to  who  she  was.  The  demoralisation  of  unemployment 
was  upon  her.  She  did  not  -cast  up  her  accounts;  she 
rose  late,  made  no  plans.  She  slept  and  ate,  careless  of 
the  morrow. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  slow  settling  into  despond 


40  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

that  a  short  note  from  Lady  Rockham  arrived  like  a 
boomshell.  It  asked  her  to  call  on  a  Mrs.  Holt  who  lived 
in  Finchley  Road.  It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Holt  was  in 
need  of  a  companion  as  her  husband  was  often  away. 
Victoria  was  shaken  out  of  her  torpor.  In  a  trice  her 
optimism  crushed  out  of  sight  the  flat  thoughts  of  aimless 
days.  She  feverishly  dressed  for  the  occasion.  She  de- 
debated  whether  she  would  have  time  to  insert  a  new 
white  frill  into  the  neck  of  a  black  blouse.  Heedless  of 
expenditure  she  spent  two  and  eleven  pence  on  new  black 
gloves,  and  twopence  on  the  services  of  a  shoeblack  who 
whistled  cheerful  tunes,  and  smiled  on  the  coppers.  Vic- 
toria sallied  out  to  certain  victory.  The  wind  was  blow- 
ing balmier.  A  fitful  gleam  of  sunshine  lit  up  and  red- 
dened the  pile  of  tangerines  in  a  shop  window. 

CHAPTER  VII 

"I'M  very  sorry  you  can't  come,"  said  Mrs.  Holt. 
"Last  Sunday,  Mr.  Baker  was  so  nice.  I  never  heard 
anything  so  interesting  as  his  sermon  on  the  personal 
devil.  I  was  quite  frightened.  At  least  I  would  have 
been  if  he  had  said  all  that  at  Bethlehem.  You  know, 
when  we  were  at  Rawsley  we  had  such  nice  lantern  lec- 
tures. I  do  miss  them." 

Victoria  looked  up  with  a  smile  at  the  kindly  red  face. 
"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "I've  got  such  a  headache.  Per- 
haps it'll  pass  over  if  I  go  for  a  little  walk  while  you  are 
at  Church."  She  was  not  unconscious,  as  she  said  this, 
of  the  subtle  flattery  that  the  use  of  the  word  "church" 
implies  when  used  to  people  who  dare  not  leave  their 
chapel. 

"Do,  Victoria,  I'm  sure  it  will  do  you  good,"  said  Mrs. 
Holt,  kindly.  "If  the  sun  keeps  on,  we'll  go  to  the  Zoo 
this  afternoon.  I  do  like  to  see  the  children  in  the  monkey 
house." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall  be  glad  to  go,"  said  Victoria  quietly. 
"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  me." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Holt,  gently  beam- 
ing. "You  are  like  the  sunshine,  you  know.  Dear  me! 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  41 

Lon't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  T  hadn't  found 
\ou.  You  can't  imagine  the  woman  who  was  here  be- 
fore you.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  and  I 
did  get  so  tired  of  hearing  how  they  lost  their  money. 
But,  there,  I'm  worrying  you  when  you've  got  a  head- 
ache. I  do  wish  you'd  try  Dr.  Eberman's  pills.  All  the 
papers  are  simply  full  of  advertisements  about  them. 
And  these  German  doctors  are  so  clever.  Oh,  I  shall  be 
so  late." 

Victoria  assured  her  that  she  was  sure  her  head  would 
be  better  by  dinner  time.  Mrs.  Holt  fussed  about  the 
room  for  a  moment,  anxiously  tested  the  possible  dusti- 
ness  of  a  bracket,  pulled  the  curtain  and  picked  up  the 
Sunday  papers  from  the  floor.  She  then  collected  a  small 
canvas  bag  covered  with  a  rainbow  parrot,  a  hymn  and 
service  book,  her  spectacle  case,  several  unnecessary  arti- 
cles which  happened  to  be  about  and  left  the  room  with 
the  characteristic  rustle  which  pervades  the  black  silk 
dresses  of  well-do-do  Rawsley  dames. 

Victoria  sat  back  in  the  large  leather  armchair.  Her 
head  was  not  very  bad  but  she  felt  just  enough  in  her 
temples  a  tiny  passing  twinge  to  shirk  chapel  without 
qualms.  She  toyed  with  a  broken  backed  copy  of  Chart- 
ton  on  Book-keeping  which  lay  in  her  lap.  It  was  a  curi- 
ous fate  that  had  landed  her  into  Charlton's  epoch 
making  work.  Mrs.  Holt,  that  prince  of  good  fellows, 
had  a  genius  for  saving  pennies  and  had  been  trained  in 
the  school  of  a  Midland  household,  but  the  fortunes  of 
her  husband  had  left  her  feebly  struggling  in  a  backwash 
of  pounds.  So  much  had  this  been  the  case  that  Mr. 
Holt  had  discovered  joyfully  that  he  had  at  last  in  his 
house  a  woman  who  could  bring  herself  to  passing  an 
account  for  twenty  pounds  for  stabling.  Little  by  little 
Victoria  had  established  her  position.  She  was  Mrs. 
Holt's  necessary  companion  and  factotum.  She  could 
apparently  do  anything  and  do  it  well;  she  could  even 
tackle  such  intricate  tasks  as  checking  washing  or  under- 
standing Bradshaw.  She  was  always  ready  and  pi  ways 
bright.  She  had  an  unerring  eye  for  a  good  quality  of 
velvet;  she  could  time  the  carriage  to  a  nicety  for  the 


42  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Albert  Hall  concert.  Mrs.  Holt  felt  that  without  this 
pleasant  and  competent  young  woman  she  would  be  quite 
lost. 

Mr.  Holt,  too,  after  inspecting  Victoria  grimly  every 
day  for  an  entire  month,  had  decided  that  she  would  do 
and  had  lent  her  the  work  on  bookkeeping,  hoping  that 
she  would  be  able  to  keep  the  house  accounts.  In  three 
months  he  had  not  addressed  her  twenty  times  beyond 
wishing  her  good  morning  and  good  night.  He  had  but 
reluctantly  left  Rawsley  and  his  beloved  cement  works  to 
superintend  his  ever  growing  London  business.  He  was  a 
little  suspicious  of  Victoria's  easy  manners;  suspicious 
of  her  intentions,  too,  as  the  northerner  is  wont  to  be. 
Yet  he  grudgingly  admitted  that  she  was  level -headed, 
which  was  "more  than  Maria  or  his  fool  of  a  son  would 
ever  be." 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment  of  Holt,  the  bookkeep- 
ing, the  falling  due  of  insurance  premiums;  then  of  Mrs. 
Holt  who  had  just  stepped  into  her  carriage  which  was 
slowly  proceeding  down  the  drive,  crunching  into  the 
hard  gravel.  A  gleam  of  sunshine  fitfully  lit  up  the 
polished  panels  of  the  clumsy  barouche  as  it  vanished 
through  the  gate. 

This  then  was  her  life.  It  might  well  have  been  worse. 
Mr.  Holt  sometimes  let  a  rough  kindness  appear  through 
an  exterior  as  hard  as  his  own  cement.  Mrs.  Holt,  stout, 
comfortable  and  good-tempered,  quite  incompetent  when 
it  came  to  controlling  a  house  in  the  Finch ey  Road,  was 
not  of  the  termagant  type  that  Victoria  had  expected 
when  she  became  a  companion.  Her  nature,  peaceful  as 
that  of  a  mollusc,  was  kind  'and  had  but  one  outstanding 
feature;  her  passionate  devotion  to  her  son  Jack. 

Victoria  thought  that  she  might  well  be  content  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  her  days  among  these  good  folk. 
From  the  bottom  of  her  heart  mild  discontent  rose  every 
now  and  then.  It  was  a  little  dull.  Tuesday  was  like 
Monday  and  probably  like  the  Tuesday  after  next.  The 
glories  of  the  town,  which  she  had  caught  sight  of  during 
her  wanderings,  before  she  floated  into  the  still  waters 
of  the  Finchley  Road,  haunted  her  at  times.  The  motor 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  43 

busses  too,  which  perpetually  carried  couples  to  the 
theatre,  the  crowds  in  Regent  Street  making  for  the 
tea-shops,  while  the  barouche  trotted  sedately  up  the  hill,, 
all  this  life  and  adventure  were  closed  off. 

Victoria  was  not  unhappy.  She  drifted  in  that  singular 
psychological  region  where  the  greatest  possible  pain  is 
not  suffering  and  where  the  acme  of  possible  pleasure 
is  not  joy.  She  did  not  realise  that  this  negative  condi- 
tion was  almost  happiness,  and  yet  did  not  precisely  re- 
pine. The  romance  of  her  life,  born  at  Lympton,  now 
slept  under  the  tamarinds.  The  stupefaction  of  the 
search  for  work,  the  hopes  and  fears  of  December,  all 
that  lay  far  away  in  those  dark  chambers  of  the  brain 
into  which  memory  cannot  force  a  way  but  swoons  on. 
the  threshold. 

Yes,  she  was  happy  enough.  Her  eyes,  casting  through 
the  bay  window  over  the  evergreens,  trimly  stationed 
and  dusty,  strayed  over  the  low  wall.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  road  stood  another  house,  low  and  solid  as  this 
one,  beautiful  though  ugly  in  its  strength  and  worth.  It 
is  not  the  house  you  live  in  that  matters,  thought  Vic- 
toria, unconsciously  committing  plagiarism,  but  the  house 
opposite.  The  house  she  lived  in  was  well  enough.  Its 
inhabitants  were  kind,  the  servants  respectful,  even  the 
mongrel  Manchester  terrier  with  the  melancholy  eyes  of 
some  collie  ancestor  did  not  gnaw  her  boots. 

She  let  her  hands  fall  into  her  lap  and,  for  a  minute, 
sat  staring  into  space,  seeing  with  extraordinary  lucidity 
those  things  to  come  which  a  movement  dispels  and 
swathes  with  the  dense  fog  of  forgetfulness.  With  terrible 
clarity  she  saw  the  life  of  the  last  three  months  and  the 
life  to  come,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning  ever  to  be. 

The  door  opened  softly.  Before  she  had  time  to  turn 
round  two  hands  were  clapped  over  her  eyes.  She  strug- 
gled to  free  herself,  but  the  hands  grew  more  insistent 
and  two  thumbs  softly  touched  her  cheeks. 

"Dimple,  dimple,"  said  a  voice,  while  one  of  the  thumbs 
gently  dwelled  near  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

Victoria  struggled  to  her  feet,  a  little  flushed,  a  strand 
of  hair  flying  over  her  left  ear. 


44  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Mr.  Jack,"  she  said  rather  curtly,  "I  don't  like  that. 
You  know  you  mustn't  do  that.  It's  not  fair.  I  really 
don't  like  it."  She  was  angry;  her  nostrils  opened  and 
shut  quickly;  she  glared  at  the  good-looking  boy  before 
her. 

"Naughty  temper,"  he  remarked,  quite  unruffled. 
"You'll  take  a  fit  one  of  these  days,  Vicky,  if  you  don't 
look  out." 

"Very  likely  if  you  give  me  starts  like  that.  Not  that 
I  mind  that  so  much,  but  really  it's  not  nice  of  you.  You 
know  you  wouldn't  do  that  if  your  mother  was  looking." 

"Course  I  wouldn't,"  said  Jack,  "the  old  mater's  such 
a  back  number,  you  know." 

"Then,"  replied  Victoria  with  much  dignity,  "you  ought 
not  to  do  things  when  we're  alone  which  you  wouldn't 
do  before  her." 

"Oh,  Lord!  morals  again,"  groaned  the  youth.  "You 
are  rough  on  me,  Vicky." 

"And  you  mustn't  call  me  Vicky,"  said  Victoria.  "I 
don't  say  I  mind,  but  it  isn't  the  thing.  If  anybody 
heard  you  I  don't  know  what  they'd  think." 

"Who  cares!"  said  Jack  in  his  most  dare  devil  style, 
putting  his  hand  on  the  back  of  hers  and  stroking  it 
softly.  Victoria  snatched  her  hand  away  and  went  to 
the  window,  where  she  seemed  absorbed  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  evergreens.  Jack  looked  a  little  non- 
plussed. He  was  an  attractive  youth  and  looked  about 
twenty.  He  had  the  fresh  complexion  and  blue  eyes  of 
his  father  but  differed  from  him  by  a  measure  of  delicacy. 
His  tall  body  was  a  little  bent;  his  face  was  all  pinks 
and  whites  set  off  by  the  blackness  of  his  straight  hair.  He 
well  deserved  his  school  nickname  of  Kathleen  Mavour- 
tneen.  His  long  thin  hands,  which  would  have  been 
aristocratic  but  for  the  slight  thickness  of  the  joints, 
branded  him  a  poet.  He  was  not  happy  in  the  cement 
business. 

Jack  stepped  up  to  the  window.  "Sorry,"  he  said, 
as  humbly  as  possible.  Victoria  did  not  move. 

"Won't  never  do  it  again,"  he  said,  pouting  like  a 
scolded  child. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  45 

"It's  no  good,"  answered  Victoria,  "I'm  not  going  to 
make  it  up." 

"I  shall  go  and  drown  myself  in  the  Regent  Canal," 
said  Jack  dolefully. 

"I'd  rather  you  went  for  a  walk  along  the  banks,"  said 
Victoria. 

"I  will  if  you'll  come  too,"  answered  Jack. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  out.  I've  got  a  headache.  Look 
here,  I'll  forgive  you  on  condition  that  you  go  out  now 
and  if  you'll  do  that  perhaps  you  can  come  with  your 
mother  and  me  to  the  Zoo  this  afternoon." 

"All  right  then,"  grumbled  the  culprit,  "you're  rather 
hard  on  me.  Always  knew  you  didn't  like  me.  Sorry." 

Victoria  looked  out  again.  A  minute  later  Jack  came 
out  of  the  house  and,  pausing  before  the  window,  signed 
to  her  to  lift  up  the  sash. 

"What  do  you  want  now?"  asked  Victoria,  thrusting 
her  head  out. 

"It's  a  bargain  about  the  Zoo,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is,  silly  boy.  I've  got  several  chil- 
dren's tickets." 

Jack  made  a  wry  face,  but  walked  away  with  a  queer 
little  feeling  of  exultation.  "Silly  boy."  She  had  called 
him  "silly  boy."  Victoria  watched  him  go  with  some 
perplexity.  The  young  man  was  rather  a  problem.  Not 
only  did  his  pretty  face  and  gentle  ways  appeal  to  her  in 
themselves,  but  he  had  told  her  something  of  his  thoughts 
and  they  did  not  run  on  cement.  His  father  had  thrust 
him  into  his  business  as  men  of  his  type  naturally  force 
their  sons  into  their  own  avocation  whatever  it  be.  Vic- 
toria knew  that  he  was  not  happy  and  was  sorry  for  him ; 
how  could  she  help  feeling  sorry  for  this  lonely  youth 
who  had  once  printed  a  rondeau  in  the  Westminster  Ga- 
zette. 

Jack  had  taken  to  her  at  once.  All  that  was  delicate 
and  feminine  in  him  called  out  to  her  square  chin  and 
steady  eyes.  Often  she  had  seen  him  look  hungrily  at 
her  strong  hands  where  bone  and  muscle  plainly  showed. 
But,  in  his  wistful  way,  Jack  had  begun  to  embarrass 
her.  He  was  making  love  to  her  in  a  sense,  sometimes 


46  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

sportively,  sometimes  plaintively,  and  he  was  difficult  to< 
resist. 

Victoria  saw  quite  well  that  trouble  must  ensue.  She 
would  not  allow  the  boy  to  fall  in  love  with  her  when  all 
she  could  offer  was  an  almost  motherly  affection.  Be- 
sides, they  could  not  marry;  it  would  be  absurd.  She 
was  puzzled  as  to  what  to  do.  Everything  tended  to 
complicate  the  situation  for  her.  She  had  once  been  to 
the  theatre  with  Jack  and  remembered  with  anxiety  how 
his  arm  had  rested  against  hers  in  the  cab  and  how,  when 
he  leaned  over  towards  her  to  speak,  she  had  felt  him 
slowly  inhaling  the  scents  of  her  hair. 

She  had  promised  herself  that  Jack  should  be  snubbed. 
And  now  he  played  pranks  on  her.  It  must  end  in  their 
being  caught  in  an  ambiguous  attitude  and  then  she  would 
be  blamed.  She  might  tell  Mrs.  Holt,  but  then  what 
would  be  her  position  in  the  household?  Jack  would  sulk 
and  Mrs.  Holt  would  watch  them  suspiciously  until  the 
situation  became  intolerable  and  she  had  to  leave.  Leave ! 
no,  no,  she  couldn't  do  that.  With  sudden  vividness 
Victoria  pictured  the  search  for  work,  the  silence  of  Port- 
sea  Place,  the  Rialto-like  archway,  Mrs.  Bell,  and  the 
cold,  the  loneliness.  Events  must  take  their  course. 

Like  the  rasp  of  a  corncrake  she  heard  the  wheels  of 
the  barouche  on  the  gravel.  Mrs.  Holt  had  returned  from 
the  discourse  on  the  personal  devil. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

"THOMAS,"  said  Mrs.  Holt  with  some  hesitation. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Holt.     "What  is  it?" 

"Oh!  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Holt.  "Just  a  queer  idea. 
Nothing  worth  talking  about." 

"Well,  come  again  when  it  is  worth  talking  about," 
growled  Mr.  Holt,  relapsing  into  his  newspaper. 

"Of  course  there's  nothing  in  it,"  remarked  Mrs.  Holt 
pertinaciously. 

"Nothing  in  what?"  her  husband  burst  forth.  "What 
do  you  mean,  Maria?  Have  you  got  anything  to  say  or 
not?  If  you  have,  let's  have  it  out." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  47 

"I  was  only  going  to  say  that  Jack  ...  of  course 
I  don't  think  that  Victoria  sees  it,  but  you  understand 
he's  a  very  young  man,  but  I  don't  blame  her,  he's  such 
a  funny  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Holt  lucidly. 

"Good  heavens,  Maria,"  cried  her  husband,  "do  you 
want  me  to  smash  something?" 

"How  you  do  go  on,"  remarked  Maria  placidly.  "What 
I  meant  to  say  is  that  don't  you  think  Jack's  rather  too 
attentive  to  Victoria?" 

Mr.  Holt  dropped  his  paper  suddenly.  "Attentive?" 
he  growled,  "haven't  noticed  it." 

"Oh!  you  men  never  notice  things,"  replied  Mrs.  Holt 
with  conscious  superiority.  "Don't  say  I  didn't  warn 
you,  that's  all." 

"Now  look  here,  Maria,"  said  Mr.  Holt,  his  blue  eyes 
darkening  visibly,  "I  don't  want  any  more  of  this  tittle 
tattle.  You  can  keep  it  for  the  next  P.S.A.  I  can  tell 
you  that  if  the  young  cub  is  'attentive'  to  Mrs.  Fulton, 
well,  so  much  the  better:  it'll  teach  him  something  worth 
knowing  if  he  finds  out  that  there's  somebody  else  in 
the  world  who's  worth  doing  something  for  beyond  his 
precious  self." 

"Very  well,  very  well,"  purred  Mrs.  Holt.  "If  you 
take  it  like  that,  I  don't  mind,  Thomas.  Don't  say  I 
didn't  warn  you  if  anything  happens.  That's  all." 

Mr.  Holt  got  up  from  his  leather  chair  and  left  the 
room.  There  were  moments  when  his  wife  roused  in 
him  the  fury  that  filled  him  when  once,  in  his  young 
days,  he  had  dropped  steel  bolts  into  the  cement  grinders 
to  gratify  a  grudge  against  an  employer.  The  temper 
that  had  made  him  rejoice  over  the  sharp  cracks  of 
smashed  axles  was  in  him  still.  He  had  got  above  the 
social  stratum  where  husbands  beat  their  wives,  but  in- 
nuendoes and  semi-secrets  goaded  him  almost  to  par- 
oxysm. 

Mrs.  Holt  heard  the  door  slam  and  coolly  took  up 
her  work.  She  was  engaged  in  the  congenial  task  of 
disfiguring  a  piece  of  Morris  chintz.  She  had  decided 
that  the  little  bag  given  her  by  an  aesthetic  friend  was 
too  flat  and  she  was  busily  employed  in  embroidering 


48  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  "eyebright"  pattern,  with  coloured  wool  in  the  most 
approved  early  Victorian  manner.  "At  any  rate,"  she 
thought,  "Thomas  has  got  the  idea  in  his  head." 

Mrs.  Holt  had  not  arrived  at  her  determination  to 
awaken  her  husband's  suspicions  without  much  thought. 
She  had  begun  to  realise  that  "something  was  wrong" 
one  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  barouche,  putting  down  to 
a  fit  of  filial  affection  the  readiness  of  Jack  to  join  them. 
She  had  availed  herself  of  the  opportunity  to  drive  round 
the  Circle;  so  as  to  show  off  her  adored  son  to  the 
Bramleys,  who  were  there  in  their  electric,  to  the  Wilsons, 
who  were  worth  quite  fifty  thousand  a  year,  to  the  Well- 
ensteins  too,  who  seemed  to  do  so  wonderfully  well  on 
the  Stock  Exchange.  Jack  had  taken  it  very  nicely  in- 
deed. 

All  the  afternoon  Jack  had  remained  with  them;  he 
had  bought  animal  food,  found  a  fellow  to  take  them 
into  the  pavilion,  and  even  driven  home  with  them.  It 
was  when  he  helped  his  charges  into  the  carriage  that 
Mrs.  Holt  had  noticed  something.  He  first  handed  his 
mother  in  and  then  Victoria.  Mrs.  Holt  had  seen  him 
put  his  hand  under  Victoria's  forearm,  which  was  quite 
ordinary,  but  she  had  also  seen  him  hold  her  in  so  doing 
by  the  joint  of  her  short  sleeve  and  long  glove  where  a 
strip  of  white  skin  showed  and  slip  two  fingers  under 
the  glove.  This  was  not  so  ordinary  and  Mrs.  Holt  be- 
gan to  think. 

When  a  Rawsley  dame  begins  to  think  of  things  such 
as  these,  her  conscience  invariably  demands  of  her  that 
she  should  know  more.  Mrs.  Holt  therefore  said  noth- 
ing, but  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  the  couple.  She  could 
urge  nothing  against  Victoria.  Her  companion  remained 
the  cheerful  and  competent  friend  of  the  early  days;  she 
was  no  more  amiable  to  Jack  than  to  his  father:  she 
talked  no  more  to  him  than  to  the  rest  of  the  household; 
she  did  not  even  look  at  him  much.  But  Jack  was  always 
about  her;  his  eyes  followed  her  round  the  room,  play- 
ing with  every  one  of  her  movements.  Whenever  she 
smiled  his  lips  fluttered  in  response. 

Mrs.  Holt  passed  slowly  through  the  tragic  stages  that 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  49 

a  mother  goes  through  when  her  son  loves.  She  was  not 
very  anxious  as  to  the  results  of  the  affair,  for  she  knew 
Jack,  though  she  loved  him.  She  knew  that  his  purpose 
was  never  strong.  Also  she  trusted  Victoria.  But,  every 
day  and  inevitably,  the  terrible  jealousy  that  invades  a 
mother's  soul  crept  further  into  hers.  He  was  her  son 
and  he  was  wavering  from  an  allegiance  the  pangs  of 
childbirth  had  entitled  her  to. 

Mrs.  Holt  loved  her  son,  and,  like  most  of  those  who 
love,  would  torture  the  being  that  was  all  in  all  for  her. 
She  would  have  crushed  his  thoughts  if  she  had  felt  able 
to  do  so,  so  as  to  make  him  more  malleable;  she  rejoiced 
to  see  him  safely  anchored  to  the  cement  business,  where 
nothing  could  distract  him;  she  even  rejoiced  over  his 
weakness,  for  she  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  giving  him 
strength.  She  would  have  ground  to  powder  his  ambi- 
tions, so  that  he  might  be  more  fully  her  son,  hers,  hers 
only. 

The  stepping  in  of  the  other  woman,  remote  and  subtle 
as  it  was,  was  a  terrible  thing.  She  felt  it  from  afar  as 
the  Arabian  steed  hears  the  coming  simoon  moaning  be- 
yond the  desert.  With  terrible  lucidity  she  had  seen 
everything  that  passed  for  a  month  after  that  fatal  day 
at  the  Zoo,  when  Jack  touched  Victoria's  arm.  She  saw 
his  looks,  stolen  from  his  mother's  face,  heard  the  soft- 
ness of  his  voice  which  was  often  sharp  for  her.  Like 
gall,  his  little  attentions,  the  quick  turn  of  his  face,  a 
flush  sometimes,  entered  into  and  poisoned  her  soul.  He 
was  her  son;  and,  with  all  the  ruthless,  entirely  animal 
cruelty  of  the  mother,  she  had  begun  to  swear  to  herself 
that  he  should  be  hers  and  hers  only,  and  that  she  would 
hug  him  in  her  arms,  aye,  hug  him  to  death  if  need  be, 
if  only  in  her  arms  he  died. 

Savagely  selfish  as  a  good  mother,  however,  Mrs.  Holt 
remembered  that  she  must  go  slowly,  collect  her  evidence, 
allow  the  fruit  to  ripen  before  she  plucked  it.  Thus  she 
retained  her  outward  kindnesses  for  Victoria,  spoke  her 
fair,  threw  her  even  into  frequent  contact  with  her  son. 
And  every  day  she  tortured  herself  with  all  the  tiny  signs 
that  radiate  from  a  lover's  face  like  aerolites  from  the 


50  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

blazing  tail  of  a  comet.  Now  her  case  was  complete. 
She  had  seen  Jack  lean  over  Victoria  while  she  was  on 
her  knees  dusting  some  books,  and  let  his  hand  dwell  on 
hers.  She  had  seen  his  face  all  alight,  his  mouth  a  little 
open,  breathing  in  the  fragrance  of  this  woman,  the  in- 
truder. And  the  iron  had  entered  into  the  mother's  heart 
so  sharply  that  she  had  to  hurry  away  unseen  for  fear 
she  should  cry  out. 

Mrs.  Holt  dropped  her  little  work  bag.  She  wondered 
whether  her  husband  would  see.  Would  she  have  to  worry 
him  placidly  for  months  as  she  usually  had  to  when  she 
wanted  her  own  way?  Or  would  he  understand  and  side 
with  her?  She  did  not  know  that  women  are  intuitive, 
for  she  knew  nothing  either  of  women  or  men,  but  she 
felt  perfectly  certain  that  she  was  cleverer  than  Thomas 
Holt.  If  he  would  not  see,  then  she  would  have  to  show 
him,  even  if  she  had  to  plot  for  her  son's  sake. 

The  door  opened  suddenly.  Thomas  Holt  entered. 
His  face  was  perturbed,  his  jaw  setting  grimly  between 
the  two  deep  folds  in  his  cheeks.  That  was  the  face  of 
his  bad  days. 

•''Well,  Thomas?"  ventured  his  wife  hesitatingly. 

"You  were  right,  Maria,"  answered  Holt  after  a  pause. 
"Jack's  a  bigger  fool  than  I  thought  him." 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Holt  with  meaning,  her  heart  beating 
a  sharp  tatoo. 

"I  was  standing  on  the  first  landing,"  Holt  went  on. 
"I  saw  them  at  the  door  of  the  smoke-room.  He  asked 
her  for  a  flower  from  her  dress;  she  wouldn't  give  it  him; 
he  reached  over  and  pulled  one  away." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  everything  in  her  quivering. 

"Put  his  arm  round  her,  though  she  pushed  him  off, 
and  kissed  her." 

Mrs.  Holt  clasped  her  hands  together.  A  sharp  pang 
had  shot  through  her.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she 
asked. 

"Do?"  said  Holt.  "Sack  her,  of  course.  Send  him 
up  to  Rawsley.  Damn  the  young  fool." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  51 

CHAPTER  IX 

BREAKFAST  is  so  proverbially  dismal,  that  dismalness 
becomes  good  form;  humanity  feels  silent  and  liverish, 
so  it  grudges  Providence  its  due,  for  it  cannot  return 
thanks  for  the  precocious  blessings  of  the  day.  Such  was 
breakfast  at  Finchley  Road,  and  Victoria  would  not  have 
noticed  it  on  that  particular  morning  had  the  silence  not 
somehow  been  eloquent.  She  could  feel,  if  not  see  storm 
clouds  on  the  horizon. 

Mr.  Holt  sat  over  his  eggs  and  bacon,  eating  quickly 
with  both  hands,  every  now  and  then  soiling  the  napkin 
tightly  tucked  into  the  front  of  his  low  collar.  There 
was  nothing  abnormal  in  this,  except  perhaps  that  he  kept 
his  eyes  more  closely  glued  than  usual  to  the  table  cloth; 
moreover,  he  had  not  unfolded  the  paper.  Therefore 
he  had  not  looked  up  the  prices  of  Industrials.  This  was 
singular.  Mrs.  Holt  never  said  much  at  breakfast,  in 
deference  to  her  husband,  but  this  morning  her  silence 
was  somewhat  ostentatious.  She  handed  Victoria  her  tea. 
Victoria  passed  her  the  toast  and  hardly  heard  her  "thank 
you." 

Jack  sat  more  abstracted  than  ever.  He  was  feeling 
very  uncomfortable.  He  wavered  between  the  severe 
talking  to  he  had  received  from  Victoria  the  previous 
afternoon  and  the  sulkiness  of  his  parents.  Of  course, 
he  was  feeling  depressed,  but  he  could  not  tell 
why.  Victoria's  mere  nod  of  acceptance  when  he  offered 
her  the  salt,  and  his  mother's  curt  refusal  of  the  pepper 
did  not  contribute  to  make  him  easier  in  his  mind.  Mrs. 
Holt  cleared  her  throat:  " Blowing  up  for  rain,  Thomas," 
she  said.  Mr.  Holt  did  not  move  a  muscle.  He  helped 
himself  to  marmalade.  Stolid  silence  once  more  reigned 
over  the  breakfast  table.  Jack  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Victoria.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  hands  crossed  be- 
fore her.  Jack's  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  their 
shapely  strength,  then  upon  the  firm  white  nape  of  her 
bent  neck.  An  insane  desire  possessed  him  to  jump  up, 
seize  her  in  his  arms,  crush  his  lips  into  that  spot  where 
the  dark  tendrils  of  her  hair  began.  He  repressed  it,  and 


52  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

considered  the  grandfather's  clock  which  had  once  ticked 
in  a  peasant  Holt's  kitchen.  To-day  it  ticked  with  almost 
horrible  deliberation. 

Jack  found  that  he  had  no  appetite.  Forebodings  were 
at  work  with  him.  Perhaps  Vic  had  told.  Of  course  not, 
she  couldn't  be  such  a  fool.  What  a  beastly  room  it  was! 
Sideboard  must  weigh  a  ton.  And  those  red  curtains! 
awful,  simply  awful.  Good  God,  why  couldn't  he  get  out 
of  the  damned  place  and  take  Vic  with  him.  Couldn't 
do  that  yet,  of  course,  but  couldn't  stick  it  much  longer. 
He'd  be  off  to  the  city  now.  Simply  awful  here.  Jack 
rose  to  his  feet  suddenly,  so  suddenly  that  his  chair  tilted 
and  fell  over. 

Mrs.  Holt  looked  up.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
noisy,  Jack,"  she  said. 

"Sorry,  mater,"  said  Jack,  going  round  to  her  and 
bending  down  to  kiss  her,  "I'm  off." 

"You're  in  a  fine  hurry,"  remarked  Mr.  Holt  grimly, 
looking  up  and  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Left  some  work  over,"  said  Jack,  in  a  curt  manner, 
making  for  the  door. 

"Hem!  you've  got  work  on  the  brain,"  retorted  his 
father  in  his  most  sardonic  tone. 

Jack  opened  the  door  without  a  word. 

"One  minute,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Holt  placidly,  "you 
needn't  go  yet,  your  father  and  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Jack  stood  rooted  to  the  ground.  His  knees  almost 
gave  way  beneath  him.  It,  it,  it  was  it.  They  knew. 
Victoria's  face,  the  profile  of  which  he  could  see  outlined 
like  a  plaster  cast  against  the  red  wall  paper  did  not 
help  him.  Her  face  had  set,  rigid  like  a  mask.  Now  she 
knew  why  the  previous  evening  had  gone  by  in  silence. 
She  rose  to  her  feet,  a  strange  numb  feeling  creeping  all 
over  her. 

"Don't  go,  Mrs.  Fulton,"  said  Mr.  Holt  sharply,  "this 
concerns  you." 

For  some  seconds  the  party  remained  silent.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Holt  had  not  moved  from  the  table.  Jack  and  Vic- 
toria stood  right  and  left,  like  prisoners  at  the  bar. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  53 

"Victoria,"  said  Mrs.  Holt,  "I'm  very  sorry  to  have  to 
say  it,  but  I'm  afraid  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  tell 
you.  Of  course,  I  don't  say  I  blame  you.  It's  quite  nat- 
ural at  your  age  and  all  that."  She  stopped,  for  a  flush 
was  rising  in  Victoria's  face,  the  cheek-bones  showing  two 
little  red  patches.  Mr.  Holt  had  clasped  his  hands  to- 
gether and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Victoria's  with  unnatural 
intensity. 

"You  see,  Victoria,"  resumed  Mrs.  Holt,  "it's  always 
difficult  when  there's  a  young  man  in  the  house;  of  course 
I  make  allowances,  but,  really,  you  see  it's  so  complicated 
and  things  get  so  annoying.  You  know  what  people 
are  .  .  ." 

"That'll  do,  Maria,"  snarled  Mr.  Holt,  jumping  to  his 
feet.  "If  you  don't  know  what  you  have  to  say,  I  do. 
Look  here,  Mrs.  Fulton.  Last  night  I  saw  Jack  kissing 
you.  I  know  perfectly  well  you  didn't  encourage  him. 
You'd  know  better.  However,  there  it  is.  I  don't  pre- 
tend I  like  what  I've  got  to  do,  but  this  must  be  stopped. 
I  can't  have  philandering  going  on  here.  You,  Jack, 
you're  going  back  to  the  works  at  Rawsley  and  don't  let 
me  see  anything  of  you  this  side  of  the  next  three  months. 
As  for  you,  Mrs.  Fulton,  I'm  sorry,  but  Mrs.  Holt  will 
have  to  find  another  companion.  I  know  it's  hard  on  you 
to  ask  you  to  leave  without  notice,  but  I  propose  to  give 
you  an  indemnity  of  twenty  pounds.  I  should  like  to 
keep  you  here,  but  you  see  that  after  what  has  happened 
it's  impossible.  I  suppose  you  agree  to  that?" 

Victoria  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  her  hands  tightly 
clenched.  She  knew  Holt's  short  ways,  but  the  manner 
of  the  dismissal  was  brutal.  Everything  seemed  to  revolve 
round  her,  she  recovered  herself  with  difficulty. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  length,  "you're  quite  right." 

Jack  had  not  moved.  His  hands  were  nervously  play- 
ing with  his  watch  chain.  Victoria,  in  the  midst  of  her 
trouble,  remembered  Edward's  familiar  gesture.  They 
were  alike  in  a  way,  these  two  tall  weedy  men,  both  irreso- 
lute and  undeveloped. 

"Very  well,  then,"  continued  Holt;    "perhaps  you'll 


54  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

make  your  arrangements  at  once.  Here  is  the  cheque." 
He  held  out  a  slip  of  blue  paper. 

Victoria  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  dully.  Then 
revolt  surged  inside  her.  "I  don't  want  your  indemnity," 
she  said  coldly,  "you  merely  owe  me  a  month's  wages  in 
lieu  of  notice." 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  crept  into  Holt's  face.  The 
semi-legal,  semi-commercial  phrase  pleased  him. 

Mrs.  Holt  rose  from  the  table  and  went  to  Victoria. 
"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  speaking  more  gently  than  she 
had  ever  done.  "You  must  take  it.  Things  are  so  hard." 

"Oh,  but  I  say,  dad  .  .  ."  broke  in  Jack. 

"That  will  do,  do  you  hear  me,  sir?"  thundered  the 
father  violently,  bringing  down  his  fist  on  the  table.  "I'm 
not  asking  you  for  your  opinion?  You  can  stay  and  look 
at  your  work  but  you  just  keep  a  silent  tongue  in  your 
head.  D'you  hear?" 

Jack  stood  cowed  and  dumb. 

"There's  nothing  more  to  say,  is  there?"  growled  Mr. 
Holt,  placing  the  cheque  on  the  table  before  Victoria. 

"Not  much,"  said  Victoria.  "I've  done  no  wrong.  Oh! 
I'm  not  complaining.  But  I  begin  to  understand  things. 
Your  son  has  persecuted  me.  I  didn't  want  his  attentions. 
You  turn  me  out.  Of  course  it's  my  fault,  I  know." 

"My  dear  Victoria,"  interposed  Mrs.  Holt,  "nobody 
says  it's  your  fault.  We  all  think  .  .  ." 

"Indeed?  it's  not  my  fault,  but  you  turn  me  out." 

Mrs.  Holt  dropped  her  hands  helplessly. 

"I  see  it  all  now,"  continued  Victoria.  "You  don't 
blame  me,  but  you're  afraid  to  have  me  here.  So  long 
as  I  was  a  servant  all  was  well.  Now  I'm  a  woman  and 
you're  afraid  of  me."  She  walked  up  and  down  nervously. 
"Now  understand,  I've  never  encouraged  your  son.  If  he 
had  asked  me  to  marry  him  I  wouldn't  have  done  it."  A 
look  of  pain  passed  over  Jack's  face  but  aroused  no  pity  in 
Victoria.  She  felt  frozen. 

"Oh!  but  there  was  no  question  of  that,"  cried  Mrs. 
Holt,  plaintively. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Victoria  ruthlessly.  "You  couldn't 
think  of  it.  Nobody  could  think  of  an  officer's  widow 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  55 

marrying  into  the  Rawsley  Works.  From  more  than  one 
point  of  view  it  would  be  impossible.  Very  good.  I'll 
leave  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  As  for  the  cheque, 
I'll  take  it.  As  you  say,  Mrs.  Holt,  things  are  hard.  I've 
learned  that  and  I'm  still  learning." 

Victoria  took  up  the  blue  slip.  The  flush  on  her  face 
subsided  somewhat.  She  picked  up  her  handkerchief,  a 
letter  from  Molly  and  a  small  anthology  lying  on  the 
dumb  waiter.  She  made  for  the  door,  avoiding  Jack's 
eyes.  She  felt  through  her  downcast  lids  the  misery  of 
his  looks.  A  softer  feeling  went  through  her,  and  she 
regretted  her  outburst.  As  she  placed  her  hand  on  the 
handle  she  turned  round  and  faced  Mrs.  Holt,  a  gentler 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  hasty,"  she  stammered.  "I  was  taken 
by  surprise.  It  was  .  .  .  vulgar." 

The  door  closed  softly  behind  her. 

CHAPTER  X 

VICTORIA  went  up  to  her  room  and  locked  the  door  be- 
hind her.  She  sat  down  on  her  small  basket  trunk  and 
stared  out  of  the  dormer  window.  She  was  still  all  of  a 
tingle;  her  hands,  grasping  the  rough  edges  of  the  trunk, 
trembled  a  little.  Yet  she  felt,  amid  all  her  perturbation, 
the  strange  gladness  that  overcomes  one  who  has  had  a 
shock;  the  contest  was  still  upon  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said  aloud,  "I'm  free.  I'm  out  of  it."  She 
hated  the  dullness  and  ugliness  which  the  Holts  had 
brought  with  them  from  the  Midlands.  The  feeling  came 
over  her  almost  like  a  spasm.  Through  the  dormer  win- 
dow she  could  see  the  white  frontage  of  the  house  oppo- 
site. It  was  repellent  like  Mrs.  Holt's  personal  devil. 

The  feeling  of  exultation  suddenly  subsided  in  Vic- 
toria's breast.  She  realised  all  of  a  sudden  that  she  was 
once  more  adrift,  that  she  must  find  something  to  do.  It 
might  not  be  easy.  She  would  have  to  find  lodgings.  The 
archway  in  Portsea  Place  materialised  crudely.  She  could 
hear  the  landlady  from  84  detailing  the  last  phase  of  rheu- 
matics to  the  slatternly  maid  who  did  for  the  grocer. 


56  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Awful,  awful.  Perhaps  she'd  never  find  another  berth. 
What  should  she  do? 

Victoria  pulled  herself  together  with  a  start.  "This 
will  never  do,"  she  said,  "there's  lots  of  time  to  worry  in. 
Now  I  must  pack."  She  got  up,  drew  the  trunk  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  opened  it  and  took  out  the  tray. 
Then,  methodically,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do  by  her 
mother,  she  piled  her  belongings  on  the  bed.  In  a  few 
minutes  it  was  filled  with  the  nondescript  possessions  of 
the  nomad.  Skirts,  books,  boots,  underclothing,  an  inkpot 
even,  jostled  one  another  in  dangerous  proximity.  Vic- 
toria surveyed  the  heap  with  some  dismay;  all  her  troubles 
had  vanished  in  the  horror  that  comes  over  every  packer: 
she  would  never  get  it  all  in.  She  struggled  for  half  an 
hour,  putting  the  heavy  things  at  the  bottom,  piling 
blouses  on  the  tray,  cunningly  secreting  scent  bottles  in 
shoes,  stuffing  handkerchiefs  into  odd  corners.  Then  she 
dropped  the  tray  in,  closed  the  lid  and  sat  down  upon 
it.  The  box  creaked  a  little  and  gave  way.  Victoria 
locked  it  and  got  up  with  a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction.  But 
she  suddenly  saw  that  the  cupboard  door  was  ajar  and 
that  in  it  hung  her  best  dress  and  a  feather  boa;  on  the 
floor  stood  the  packer's  plague,  shoes.  It  was  quite  hope- 
less to  try  and  get  them  in. 

Victoria  surveyed  the  difficulty  for  a  moment;  then  she 
regretfully  decided  that  she  must  ask  Mrs.  Holt  for  a 
cardboard  box,  for  her  hat-box  was  already  mortgaged. 
A  nuisance.  But  rather  no,  she  would  ask  the  parlour- 
maid. She  went  to  the  door  and  was  surprised  to  find  it 
locked.  She  turned  the  key  slowly,  looking  round  at 
the  cheerful  little  room,  every  article  of  which  was  stupid 
without  being  offensive.  It  was  hard,  after  all,  to  leave 
all  this,  without  knowing  where  to  go. 

Victoria  opened  the  door  and  jumped  back  with  a  little 
cry.  Before  her  stood  Jack.  He  had  stolen  up  silently 
and  waited.  His  face  had  flushed  as  he  saw  her;  in  his 
eyes  was  the  misery  of  a  sorrowful  dog.  His  mouth,  al- 
ways a  little  open,  trembled  with  excitement. 

"Jack,"  cried  Victoria,  "oh I  what  do  you  want?" 

"I've  come  to  say  ...  oh!  Victoria  .  .  ."  Jack  broke 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  57 

down  in  the  middle  of  his  carefully  prepared  sentence. 

"Oh!  go  away,"  said  Victoria  faintly,  putting  her  hand 
on  her  breast.  "Do  go  away.  Can't  you  see  I've  had 
trouble  enough  this  morning?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  muttered  Jack  miserably.  "I've  been  a 
fool.  Vic,  I've  come  to  ask  you  if  you'll  forgive  me.  It's 
all  my  fault.  I  can't  bear  it." 

"Don't  talk  about  it,"  said  Victoria  becoming  rigid. 
"That's  all  over.  Besides  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about 
it  to-morrow,"  she  added  cruelly. 

Jack  did  not  answer  directly,  though  he  was  stung. 
"Vic,"  he  said  with  hesitation,  "I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
go,  all  through  me.  Listen,  there's  something  you  said 
this  morning.  Did  you  mean  it?" 

"Mean  what?"  asked  Victoria  uneasily. 

"You  said,  if  I'd  ask  you  to  marry  me  you  ...  I 
know  I  didn't,  but  you  know,  Vic,  I  wanted  you  the  first 
time  I  saw  you.  Oh!  Vic,  won't  you  marry  me  now?" 

Victoria  looked  at  him  incredulously.  His  hands  were 
still  trembling  with  excitement.  His  light  eyes  stared  a 
little.  His  long  thin  frame  was  swaying..  "I'd  do  any- 
thing for  you.  You  don't  know  what  I  could  do.  I'd 
work  for  you.  I'd  love  you  more  than  you've  ever  been 
loved."  Jack  stopped  short;  there  was  a  hardness  that 
frightened  him  in  the  set  of  Victoria's  jaw. 

"You  didn't  say  that  yesterday,"  she  answered. 

"No,  I  was  mad.  But  I  wanted  to  all  along,  Vic. 
You're  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved.  I  don't  ask  more 
of  you  than  to  let  me  love  you." 

Victoria  looked  at  him  more  gently.  His  likeness  to 
her  brother  grew  plainer  than  ever.  Kind  but  hopelessly 
inefficient.  Poor  boy,  he  meant  no  harm. 

"I'm  sorry,  Jack,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "I  can't  do 
it.  You  know  you  couldn't  make  a  living  ..." 

"Oh,  I  could,  I  could!"  cried  Jack  clinging  at  the 
straw,  "if  I  had  you  to  work  for.  You  can't  tell  what  it 
means  for  me." 

"Perhaps  you  could  work,"  said  Victoria  with  a  wan 
little  smile,  "but  I  can't  marry  you,  Jack,  you  see.  I 


58  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

like  you  very  much,  but  I'm  not  in  love  with  you.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair." 

Jack  looked  at  her  dully.  He  had  not  dared  to  expect 
anything  but  defeat,  yet  defeat  crushed  him. 

"There,  you  must  go  away  now,"  said  Victoria,  "I  must 
go  downstairs.  Let  me  pass  please."  She  squeezed  be- 
tween him  and  the  wall  and  made  for  the  stairs. 

"No,  I  can't  let  you  go,"  said  Jack  hoarsely.  He  seized 
her  by  the  waist  and  bent  over  her.  Victoria  looked  the 
space  of  a  second  into  his  eyes  where  the  tiny  veins  were 
becoming  bloodshot.  She  pushed  him  back  sharply  and, 
wrenching  herself  away,  ran  down  the  stairs.  He  did  not 
follow  her. 

Victoria  looked  up  from  the  landing.  Jack  was  stand- 
ing with  bent  head,  one  hand  on  the  banister.  "The  only 
thing  you  can  do  for  me  is  to  go  away,"  she  said  coldly. 
"I  shall  come  up  again  in  five  minutes  with  Effie.  I  sup- 
pose you  will  not  want  us  to  find  you  outside  my  bedroom 
door." 

She  went  downstairs.  When  she  came  up  again  with 
the  maid,  who  carried  a  large  brown  cardboard  box,  Jack 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  she  followed  the  butcher's 
boy  who  was  dragging  her  box  down  the  stairs,  dropping 
it  with  successive  thuds  from  step  to  step.  As  she  reached 
the  hall,  while  she  was  hesitating  as  to  whether  she  should 
go  into  the  dining-room  to  say  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Holt, 
the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Holt  came  out.  The  two 
women  looked  at  one  another  for  the  space  of  a  second, 
like  duellists  about  to  cross  swords.  Then  Mrs.  Holt  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Victoria,"  she  said,  "I'm  sorry  you're  going. 
I  know  you're  not  to  blame." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Victoria  icily.  "I'm  sorry  also,  but 
it  couldn't  be  helped." 

Mrs.  Holt  heaved  a  large  sigh.  "I  suppose  not,"  she 
said. 

Victoria  withdrew  her  hand  and  went  towards  the  door. 
The  butcher's  boy  had  already  taken  her  box  down,  mark- 
ing the  whitened  steps  with  two  black  lines. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  59 

"Shall  I  call  a  cab,  mum?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  please,"  said  Victoria  dreamily. 

The  youth  went  down  the  drive,  his  heels  crunching 
into  the  gravel.  Victoria  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
looking  out  at  the  shrubs,  one  or  two  of  which  showed  pale 
buds,  standing  sharp  like  jewels  on  the  black  stems.  Mrs. 
Holt  came  up  behind  her  softly. 

"I  hope  we  don't  part  in  anger,  Victoria,"  she  said 
guiltily. 

Victoria  looked  at  her  with  faint  amusement.  True, 
anger  is  a  cardinal  sin. 

"Oh!  no,  not  at  all,"  she  answered.  "I  quite  under- 
stand." 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  give  me  as  a  reference,"  said  Mrs. 
Holt. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Victoria.    "I  sha'n't  forget." 

"And  if  ever  you're  in  trouble,  come  to  me." 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Victoria.  Mrs.  Holt  was  kind, 
she  felt.  She  understood  her  better  now.  Much  of  her 
sternness  oozed  out  of  her.  A  mother  defending  her  son 
knows  no  pity,  thought  Victoria;  perhaps  it's  wrong  to 
resent  it.  It's  nature's  way  of  keeping  the  young  alive. 

The  cab  came  trotting  up  the  drive  and  stopped.  The 
butcher's  boy  was  loading  the  trunk  upon  the  roof.  Vic- 
toria turned  to  Mrs.  Holt  and  took  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  "you've  been  very  good  to  me. 
Don't  think  I'm  so  bad  as  you  thought  me  this  morning. 
Your  son  has  just  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

Mrs.  Holt  dropped  Victoria's  hand;  her  face  was  dis- 
torted by  a  spasm. 

"I  refused  him,"  said  Victoria. 

She  stepped  into  the  cab  and  directed  the  cabman  to 
Portsea  Place.  As  they  turned  into  the  road  she  looked 
back.  At  the  head  of  the  steps  Mrs.  Holt  stood  frozen 
and  amazed.  Victoria  almost  smiled  but,  her  eyes  wan- 
dering upwards,  she  saw,  at  her  dormer  window,  Jack's 
head  and  shoulders.  His  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
with  unutterable  longing.  A  few  strands  of  hair  had 
blown  down  upon  his  forehead.  For  the  space  of  a  sec- 
ond they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  the  wall 


60  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

blotted  him  out  suddenly.  Victoria  sighed  softly  and  sank 
back  upon  the  seat  of  the  cab. 

At  the  moment  she  had  no  thought.  She  was  at  such 
a  point  as  one  may  be  who  has  turned  the  last  page  of 
the  first  volume  of  a  lengthy  book:  the  next  page  is  blank. 
Nothing  remained  even  of  that  last  look  in  which  Jack's 
blue  eyes  had  pitifully  retold  his  sorry  tale.  She  was  like 
a  rope  which  has  parted  with  many  groans  and  wrench- 
ings;  broken  and  its  strands  scattering,  its  ends  float 
lazily  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  preparing  to  sink.  She 
was  going  more  certainly  into  the  unknown  than  if  she 
had  walked  blindfold  into  the  darkest  night. 

The  horse  trotted  gently,  the  brakes  gritting  on  the 
wheels  as  it  picked  its  way  down  the  steep.  The  fresh 
air  of  April  drove  into  the  cab,  stinging  a  little  and  yet 
balmy  with  the  freshness  of  latent  spring.  Victoria  sat 
up,  clasped  her  hands  on  the  doors  and  craned  out  to  see. 
There  was  a  little  fever  in  her  blood  again;  the  spirit  of 
adventure  was  raising  its  head.  As  fitful  gleams  of  sun- 
shine lit  up  and  irradiated  the  puddles  a  passionate  inter- 
est in  the  life  around  seemed  to  overpower  her.  She 
looked  almost  greedily  at  the  spire,  far  down  the  Willing- 
ton  Road,  shining  white  like  molten  metal  with  almost 
Italian  brilliancy  against  a  sky  pale  as  shallow  water.  The 
light,  the  young  wind,  the  scents  of  earth  and  buds,  the 
men  and  women  who  walked  with  springy  step,  intent  on 
no  business,  all  this,  and  even  the  horse  who  seemed  to 
toss  his  head  and  swish  his  tail  in  sheer  glee,  told  her  that 
the  world  was  singing  its  alleluia,  for,  behold,  spring  was 
born  unto  it  in  gladness,  with  all  its  trappings  and  its 
sumptuous  promise. 

Everything  was  beautiful ;  not  even  the  dreary  waste  of 
wall  which  conceals  Lords  from  the  vulgar,  nor  the  thou- 
sand tombs  of  the  churchyard  where  the  dead  jostle  and 
grab  land  from  one  another  were  without  their  peculiar 
charm.  It  was  not  until  the  cab  crossed  the  Edgware 
Road  that  Victoria  realised  with  a  start  that,  though  the 
world  was  born  again,  she  did  not  share  its  good  fortune. 
Edgware  Road  had  dragged  her  down  to  the  old  level;  a 
horrible  familiarity,  half  pleasurable,  half  fearful,  over- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  61 

whelmed  her.  This  street,  which  she  had  so  often  paced 
carrying  a  heart  that  grew  heavier  with  every  step,  had 
never  led  her  to  anything  but  loneliness,  to  the  cold 
emptiness  of  her  room.  Her  mood  had  changed.  She 
saw  nothing  now  but  tawdry  stationers'  shops,  meretri- 
cious jewellry  and,  worse  still,  the  sickening  plenty  of 
its  monster  stores  of  clothing  and  food.  The  road  had 
seized  her  and  was  carrying  her  away  towards  its  summit, 
where  the  hill  melts  into  the  skies  between  the  houses  that 
grow  lower  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 

Victoria  closed  her  eyes.  She  was  in  the  grip  once 
more;  the  wheels  of  the  machine  were  not  moving  yet  but 
she  could  feel  the  vibration  as  it  got  up  steam.  In  a  little 
the  flywheel  would  slowly  revolve  and  then  she  would  be 
caught  and  ground  up.  Yes,  ground  up,  cried  the  Edg- 
ware  Road,  like  thousands  of  others  as  good  as  you, 
ground  into  little  bits  to  make  roadmetal  of,  yes,  ground, 
ground  fine. 

The  cab  stopped  suddenly.  Victoria  opened  her  eyes. 
Yes,  this  was  Portsea  Place.  She  got  out.  It  had  not 
changed.  The  curtains  of  the  house  opposite  were  as 
dirty  as  ever.  The  landlady  from  the  corner  was  standing 
just  under  the  archway,  dressed  as  usual  in  an  expansive 
pink  blouse  in  which  her  flowing  contours  rose  and  fell. 
She  interrupted  the  voluble  comments  on  the  weather 
which  she  was  addressing  to  the  little  faded  colleague, 
dressed  in  equally  faded  black,  to  stare  at  the  newcomer. 

"There  ain't  no  more  room  at  Bell's,"  she  remarked. 

"She  is  very  fortunate,"  said  the  faded  little  woman. 
"Dear  me,  dear  me.  It's  a  cruel  world." 

"Them  lidies'  maids  allus  ketches  on,"  said  the  large 
woman  savagely.  "Tell  yer  wot,  though,  p'raps  they 
wouldn't  if  they  was  to  see  Bell's  kitching.  Oh,  LorM 
There  ain't  no  black-beetles.  I  don't  think." 

The  little  faded  woman  looked  longingly  at  Victoria 
standing  on  the  steps.  A  loafer  sprung  from  thin  air 
as  is  the  way  of  his  kind  and  leant  against  the  area  rail- 
ings, touching  his  cap  whenever  he  caught  Victoria's  eye, 
indicating  at  times  the  box  on  the  roof  of  the  cab.  From 
the  silent  house  came  a  noise  that  grew  louder  and  louder 


62  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

as  the  footsteps  drew  nearer  the  door.    Victoria  recognised 
the  familiar  shuffle.    Mrs.  Bell  opened  the  door. 

"Lor',  mum,"  she  cried,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  again." 
She  caught  sight  of  the  trunk.  "Oh,  are  you  moving, 
mum?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  Victoria.  "I'm  moving  and  I 
want  some  rooms.  Of  course  I  thought  of  you." 

Mrs.  Bell's  face  fell.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  mum.  The 
house  is  full.  If  you'd  come  last  week  I  had  the  first 
floor  back."  She  seemed  genuinely  distressed.  She  liked 
her  quiet  lodger  and  to  turn  away  business  of  any  kind 
was  always  depressing. 

Victoria  felt  dashed.  She  remembered  Edward's  con- 
sternation on  discovering  the  change  in  Gower  Street  and, 
for  the  first  time,  sympathised. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  too,  Mrs.  Bell.  I  should  like  to 
have  come  back  to  you." 

"Couldn't  you  wait  until  next  month,  mum?"  said 
Mrs.  Bell,  reluctant  to  turn  her  away.  "The  gentleman 
in  the  second  floor  front,  he's  going  away  to  Rhodesia. 
It's  your  old  room,  mum." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Victoria  with  a  smile.  "In  fact, 
I  must  find  lodgings  at  once.  Never  mind,  if  I  don't  like 
them  I'll  come  back  here.  But  can't  you  recommend 
somebody?" 

Mrs.  Bell  looked  right  and  left,  then  into  the  arch- 
way. The  little  faded  woman  had  disappeared.  The  land- 
lady in  the  billowy  blouse  was  still  surveying  the  scene. 
Mrs.  Bell  froze  her  with  a  single  look. 

"No,  mum,  can't  say  I  know  of  anybody,  leastways 
not  here,"  she  said  slowly.  "It's  a  nice  neighbourhood, 
of  course,  but  the  houses  here,  they  look  all  right,  but  oh, 
mum,  you  should  see  their  kitchens!  Dirty  ain't  the 
word,  mum.  But  wait  a  bit,  mum,  if  you  wouldn't  mind 
that,  I've  got  a  sister  who's  got  a  very  nice  room.  She 
lives  in  Castle  Street,  mum,  near  Oxford  Circus.  It's  a 
nice  neighbourhood,  of  course  not  so  near  the  Park,"  added 
Mrs.  Bell  with  conscious  superiority. 

"I  don't  mind,  Mrs.  Bell,"  said  Victoria.  "I'm  not 
fashionable." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  63 

"Oh,  mum,"  cried  Mrs.  Bell,  endeavouring  to  imply 
together  the  superiority  of  Portsea  Place  and  the  respec- 
tability of  any  street  patronised  by  her  family,  "I'm  sure 
you'll  like  it.  I'll  give  you  the  address." 

In  a  few  minutes  Victoria  was  speeding  eastwards. 
Now  she  was  rooted  up  for  good.  She  was  leaving  behind 
her  Curran's  and  Mrs.  Bell,  slender  links  between  her  and 
home  life,  links  still,  however.  The  pageant  of  London 
rolled  by  her,  heaving,  bursting  with  rich  life.  The  sun- 
shine around  her  bade  her  be  of  good  cheer.  Then  the 
cab  turned  a  corner  and,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  stage 
effect,  it  carried  its  burden  into  the  haunts  of  darkness 
and  malodour. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"Telegraph,  mum,"  said  a  voice. 

Victoria  started  up  from  the  big  armchair  with  a  sud- 
denness that  almost  shot  her  out  of  it.  It  was  the  brother 
of  the  one  in  Portsea  Place  and  shared  its  constitutional 
objection  to  being  sat  upon.  It  was  part  of  the  "sweet" 
which  Miss  Briggs  had  divided  with  Mrs.  Bell  when  their 
grandmother  died. 

"Thanks,  Miss  Briggs,"  said  Victoria.  "By  the  way, 
I  don't  think  that  egg  is  quite  fresh.  And  why  does  Hetty 
put  the  armchair  in  front  of  the  cupboard  every  day  so 
that  I  can't  open  it?" 

"The  slut,  I  don't  see  there's  anything  the  matter  with 
it,"  remarked  Miss  Briggs,  simultaneously  endorsing  the 
complaint  against  Hetty  and  defending  her  own  market- 
ing. 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,  Miss  Briggs,"  snapped  Victoria  with 
a  sharpness  which  would  have  been  foreign  to  her  some 
months  before.  "Don't  let  it  happen  again  or  I'll  do  my 
own  catering." 

Miss  Briggs  collapsed  on  the  spot.  The  profits  on  the 
three  and  sixpence  a  week  for  "tea,  bread  and  butter  and 
anything  that's  going,"  formed  quite  a  substantial  portion 
of  her  budget. 


64  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,  mum,"  she  said,  "it's  Hetty  bought  'em 
this  week.  The  slut,  I'll  talk  to  her." 

Victoria  took  no  notice  of  the  penitent  landlady  and 
opened  the  Telegraph.  She  absorbed  the  fact  that  Con- 
sols had  gone  up  an  eighth  and  that  contangoes  were  in 
process  of  arrangement,  without  interest  or  understanding. 
She  was  thinking  of  something  else.  Miss  Briggs  coughed 
apologetically.  Victoria  looked  up.  Miss  Briggs  reflec- 
tively tied  knots  in  her  apron  string.  She  was  a  tall, 
lantern- jawed  woman  of  no  particular  age;  old  looking 
for  thirty-five  perhaps  or  young  looking  for  fifty.  Her 
brown  hair,  plentifully  sprinkled  with  grey,  broke  out  in 
wisps  over  each  ear  and  at  the  back  of  the  neck.  Her 
perfectly  flat  chest  allowed  big  bags  of  coarse  black  serge 
to  hang  over  her  dirty  white  apron.  Her  hands  played 
mechanically  with  the  strings,  while  her  water-coloured 
eye  fixed  upon  the  Telegraph. 

"You  shouldn't  read  that  paper,  mum,"  she  remarked. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Victoria,  with  a  smile,  "isn't  it  a 
good  one?" 

"Oh,  yes,  mum,  I  don't  say  that,"  said  Miss  Briggs 
with  the  respect  that  she  felt  for  the  buyers  of  penny 
papers.  "There's  none  better.  Mine's  the  Dally  Mail, 
of  course,  and  just  a  peep  into  Reynolds  before  the  young 
gent  on  the  first  floor  front.  But  you  shouldn't  have  it. 
Tizer's  your  paper." 

"Tizer?"  said  Victoria  interrogatively. 

"Morning  Advertiser,  mum;  that's  the  one  for  adver- 
tisements." 

"But  how  do  you  know  I  read  the  advertisements,  Miss 
Briggs?"  asked  Victoria,  still  smiling. 

"Oh,  mum,  excuse  the  liberty,"  said  Miss  Briggs  in  great 
trepidation.  "It's  the  only  sheet  I  don't  find  when  I 
comes  up  to  do  the  bed.  Tizer's  the  one  for  you,  mum; 
I  had  a  young  lady  'ere,  once.  Got  a  job  at  the  Inverness 
Lounge,  she  did.  Married  a  clergyman,  they  say.  He's 
divorced  her  now." 

"That's  an  encouraging  story,  Miss  Briggs,"  said  Vic- 
toria with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye.  "How  do  you  know  I 
want  to  be  a  barmaid,  though?" 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  65 

"Oh,  one  has  to  be  what  one  can,  mum,"  said  Miss 
Briggs  sorrowfully.  "Sure  enough,  it  ain't  all  honey  and 
it  ain't  all  jam  keeping  this  house.  The  bells,  they  rings 
all  day  and  it's  the  breakfast  that's  bad  and  there  ain't 
blankets  enough,  and  I  never  'ad  a  scuttle  big  enough  to 
please  'em  for  sixpence.  But  you  ain't  doing  that,  mum," 
she  added  after  a  pause  devoted  to  the  consideration  of 
her  wrongs.  "A  young  lady  like  you,  she  ought  to  be 
behind  the  bar." 

Victoria  laughed  aloud.  "Thanks  for  the  hint,  Miss 
Briggs,"  she  said,  "I'll  think  it  over.  To-day,  however, 
I'm  going  to  try  my  luck  on  the  stage.  What  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

"Going  on  tour?"  cried  Miss  Briggs  in  a  tone  of  tense 
anxiety. 

"Well,  not  yet,"  said  Victoria  soothingly.  "I'm  going 
to  see  an  agent." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Miss  Briggs  with  ghoulish 
relief.  "Hope  yer'll  get  a  job,"  she  added  as  confidently 
as  a  man  offering  a  drink  to  a  teetotaller.  At  that  mo- 
ment a  fearful  clattering  on  the  stairs  announced  that 
Hetty  and  the  pail  had  suddenly  descended  to  the  lower 
landing.  Liquid  noises  followed.  Miss  Briggs  rushed  out. 
Victoria  jumped  up  and  slammed  her  door  on  the  chaotic 
scene.  She  returned  to  the  Telegraph.  The  last  six  weeks 
in  the  Castle  Street  lodging  house  had  taught  her  that 
these  were  happenings  quite  devoid  of  importance. 

Victoria  spread  out  the  Telegraph,  ignored  the  foreign 
news,  the  leaders  and  the  shocking  revelations  as  to  the 
Government's  Saharan  policy;  she  dallied  for  a  moment 
over  "gowns  for  debutantes,"  for  she  was  a  true  woman, 
passed  on  to  the  advertisements.  She  was  getting  quite 
experienced  as  a  reader  and  could  sift  the  wheat  from  the 
chaff  with  some  accuracy.  She  knew  that  she  could  safely 
ignore  applications  for  lady  helps  in  "small  families,"  at 
least  unless  she  was  willing  to  clean  boots  and  blacklead 
grates  for  five  shillings  a  week  and  meals  when  an  oppor- 
tunity occurred;  her  last  revelation  as  to  the  nature  of  a 
post  of  housekeeper  to  an  elderly  gentleman  who  had 
retired  from  business  into  the  quietude  of  Surbiton  had 


66  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

not  been  edifying.  The  "Financial  and  Businesses"  col- 
umn left  her  colder  than  she  had  been  when  she  left  Mrs. 
Holt  with  nearly  thirty-seven  pounds.  Then  she  was  a 
capitalist  and  pondered  longingly  over  the  proposals  of 
tobacconists,  fancy  goods  firms,  and  stationers,  who  were 
prepared  to  guarantee  a  fortune  to  any  person  who  could 
muster  thirty  pounds.  Fortunately  Miss  Briggs  had  un- 
deceived her.  In  her  variegated  experience,  she  herself 
had  surrendered  some  sixty  golden  sovereigns  to  the  per- 
suasive owner  of  a  flourishing  newsagent's  business.  After 
a  few  weeks  of  vain  attempts  to  induce  the  neighbour- 
hood to  indulge  in  the  news  of  the  day,  she  had  been  glad 
to  sell  her  stock  of  sweets  for  eighteen  shillings,  and  to 
take  half  a  crown  for  a  hundred  penny  novelettes. 

Victoria  turned  to  the  "Situations  Vacant."  Their  num- 
bers were  deceptive.  She  had  never  realised  before  how 
many  people  live  by  fitting  other  people  for  work  they 
cannot  get.  Two-thirds  of  the  advertisements  offered  won- 
derful opportunities  for  sons  of  gentlemen  in  the  offices  of 
architects  and  engineers  on  payment  of  a  premium;  she 
also  found  she  could  become  a  lady  gardener  if  she  would 
only  follow  the  courses  in  some  dukery  and  meanwhile 
live  on  air;  others  would  teach  her  shorthand,  typewriting 
or  the  art  of  the  secretary.  All  these  she  now  calmly 
skipped.  She  was  obviously  unfitted  to  be  the  matron  of 
an  asylum  for  the  feeble-minded.  Such  experience  had 
not  been  hers,  nor  had  she  the  redoubtable  record  which 
would  open  the  gates  of  an  emporium.  An  illegible  hand 
would  exclude  her  from  the  city. 

"No,"  thought  Victoria,  "I'm  an  unskilled  labourer; 
that's  what  I  am."  She  wearily  skimmed  the  agencies; 
as  a  matter  of  habit  noted  the  demand  for  two  compan- 
ions and  one  nursery  governess  and  put  the  paper  aside. 
There  was  not  much  hope  in  any  of  these,  for  one  was  for 
Tiverton,  the  other  for  Cardiff,  which  would  make  a  per- 
sonal interview  a  costly  business;  the  third,  discreetly 
cloaked  by  an  initial,  suggested  by  its  terseness  a  com- 
panionship probably  undue  in  its  intimacy.  The  last  six 
weeks  had  opened  Victoria's  eyes  to  the  unpleasant  aspects 
of  life,  so  much  so  that  she  wondered  whether  there  were 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  67 

any  other.  She  felt  now  that  London  was  waiting  for  her 
outside,  waiting  for  her  to  have  spent  her  last  copper,  when 
she  would  come  out  to  be  eaten  so  that  she  might  eat. 

Whatever  her  conceit  might  have  been  six  months  be- 
fore, Victoria  had  lost  it  all.  She  could  no  nothing  that 
was  wanted  and.  desired  everything  she  could  not  get. 
She  had  tried  all  sources  and  found  them  dry.  Commer- 
cialism, philanthropy,  and  five  per  cent,  philanthropy  had 
failed  her.  "What  can  you  do?"  was  their  cry.  And,  the 
answer  being  "nothing,"  their  retort  had  been  "No  more 
can  we." 

Victoria  turned  over  in  her  mind  her  interview  with 
the  Honorary  Secretary  of  the  British  Women's  Imperial 
Self  Help  Association.  "Of  course,"  said  the  Secretary, 
"we  will  be  glad  to  register  you.  We  need  some  refer- 
ences and,  as  our  principle  is  to  foster  the  independence 
and  self-respect  of  those  whom  we  endeavour  to  place  in 
positions  such  as  may  befit  their  social  status,  we  are  com- 
pelled to  demand  a  fee  of  five  shillings." 

"Oh,  self  help,  I  see,"  said  Victoria  sardonically,  for 
she  was  beginning  to  understand  the  world. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Honorary  Secretary,  oblivious  of  the 
sneer,  for  his  mind  was  cast  in  the  parliamentary  mould, 
"by  adhering  to  our  principle  and  by  this  means  only  can 
we  hope  to  stem  the  tide  of  pauperism  to  which  modern 
socialistic  tendencies  are — are — spurring  the  masses."  Vic- 
toria had  paid  five  shillings  for  this  immortal  metaphor 
and  within  a  week  had  received  an  invitation  to  attend  a 
meeting  presided  over  by  several  countesses. 

The  B.  W.  I.  S.  H.  A.  (as  it  was  called  by  its  inti- 
mates), had  induced  in  Victoria  suspicions  of  societies  in 
general.  She  had,  however,  applied  also  to  the  Ladies' 
Provider.  Its  name  left  one  in  doubt  whether  it  provided 
ladies  with  persons  or  whether  it  provided  ladies  to  per- 
sons who  might  not  be  ladies.  The  Secretary  in  this  case, 
was  not  Honorary.  The  inwardness  of  this  did  not  appear 
to  Victoria;  for  she  did  not  then  know  that  plain  secre- 
taries are  generally  paid,  and  try  to  earn  their  salary. 
Their  interview  had,  however,  not  been  such  as  to  con- 
vert her  to  the  value  of  corporate  effort. 


68  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

The  Secretary  in  this  case  was  a  woman  of  forty,  with 
a  pink  face,  trim  grey  hair,  spectacles,  amorphous  cloth- 
ing, capable  hands.  She  exhaled  an  atmosphere  of  re- 
spectability, and  the  faint  odour  of  almonds  which  ema- 
nates from  those  women  who  eschew  scent  in  favour  of 
soap.  She  had  quietly  listened  to  Victoria's  history,  mak- 
ing every  now  and  then  a  shorthand  note.  Then  she  had 
coughed  gently  once  or  twice.  Victoria  felt  as  in  the 
presence  of  an  examiner.  Was  she  going  to  get  a  pass? 

"I  do  not  say  that  we  cannot  do  anything  for  you,  Mrs. 
Fulton,"  she  said,  "but  we  have  so  many  cases  similar  to 
yours." 

Victoria  had  bridled  a  little  at  this.  "Cases"  was  a 
nasty  word. 

"I'm  not  particular,"  she  had  answered,  "I'd  be  a  com- 
panion any  day." 

"I'm  sure  you'd  make  a  pleasant  one,"  said  the  Secre- 
tary graciously,  "but  before  we  go  any  further,  tell  me 
how  it  was  you  left  your  last  place.  You  were  in  the  .  .  . 
in  the  Finchley  Road,  was  it  not?"  The  Secretary's  eyes 
travelled  to  a  map  of  London  where  Marylebone,  South 
Paddington,  Kensington,  Belgravia,  and  Mayfair,  were 
blocked  out  in  blue. 

Victoria  had  hesitated,  then  fenced.  "Mrs.  Holt  will 
give  me  a  good  character,"  she  faltered. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  replied  the  Secretary,  her  eyes 
growing  just  a  little  darker  behind  the  glasses.  "Yet,  you 
see,  we  are  compelled  by  the  nature  of  our  business  to 
make  enquiries.  A  good  reference  is  a  very  good  thing, 
yet  people  are  a  little  careless  sometimes;  the  hearts  of 
employers  are  often  rather  soft." 

This  was  a  little  too  much  for  Victoria.  "If  you  want 
to  know  the  truth,"  she  said  bluntly,  "the  son  of  the 
house  persecuted  me  with  his  attentions,  and  I  couldn't 
bear  it." 

The  Secretary  made  a  shorthand  note.  Then  she  looked 
at  Victoria's  flashing  eyes,  heightened  colour,  thick  piled 
hair. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  began  lamely.  .  .  . 

What  dreadful  things  women  are,  thought  Victoria, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  69 

folding  up  the  Telegraph.  If  Christ  had  said:  Let  her 
who  hath  never  sinned  .  .  .  the  woman  would  have  been 
stoned,  Victoria  got  up,  went  to  the  looking-glass  and 
inspected  herself.  Yes,  she  was  very  pretty.  She  was 
prettier  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  Her  skin  was 
paler,  her  eyes  larger;  her  thick  eyebrows  almost  met  in 
an  exquisite  gradation  of  short  dark  hairs  over  the  bridge 
of  the  nose.  She  watched  her  breast  rise  and  fall  gently, 
flashing  white  through  the  black  lacework  of  her  blouse, 
then  falling  away  from  it,  tantalising  the  faint  sunshine 
that  would  kiss  it.  As  she  turned,  another  looking-glass 
set  in  the  lower  panels  of  a  small  cupboard  told  her  that 
her  feet  were  small  and  high  arched.  Her  openwork 
stockings  were  drawn  so  tight  that  the  skin  there  also 
gleamed  white. 

Victoria  took  from  the  table  a  dirty  visiting  card.  It 
bore  the  words  "Louis  Carrel,  Musical  and  Theatrical 
Agent,  5  Soho  Place."  She  had  come  by  it  in  singular 
manner.  Two  days  before,  as  she  left  the  offices  of  the 
"Compleat  Governess  Agency"  after  having  realised  that 
she  could  not  qualify  in  either  French,  German,  Music, 
Poker  work  or  Swedish  drill,  she  had  paused  for  a  moment 
on  the  doorstep,  surveying  the  dingy  court  where  they  were 
concealed,  the  dirty  panes  of  an  unlet  shop  opposite,  the 
strange  literature  flaunting  in  the  showcase  of  some  pub- 
lisher of  esoterics.  A  woman  had  come  up  to  her,  rising 
like  the  loafers  from  the  flagstones.  She  had  realised  be- 
as  between  ages  and  between  colours.  Then  the  woman 
had  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  she  came  without  having 
spoken,  leaving  in  Victoria's  hand  the  little  square  of 
pasteboard. 

Victoria  looked  at  it  meditatively.  She  would  have 
shrunk  from  the  idea  of  the  stage  a  year  before,  when 
the  tradition  of  Lympton  was  still  upon  her.  But  times 
had  changed;  a  simple  philosophy  was  growing  in  her; 
what  did  anything  matter?  would  it  not  be  all  the  same 
in  a  hundred  years?  The  discovery  of  this  philosophy  did 
not  strike  her  as  commonplace.  There  are  but  few  who 
know  that  this  is  the  philosophy  of  the  world. 

Victoria  put  down  the  card  and  began  to  dress.     She 


70  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

removed  the  old  black  skirt  and  ragged  lace  blouse  and, 
as  she  stood  before  the  glass  in  her  short  petticoat,  patting 
her  hair  and  setting  a  comb,  she  reflected  with  satisfaction 
that  her  arms  were  shapely  and  white.  She  looked  almost 
lovingly  at  the  long  thin  dark  hairs,  fine  as  silk,  that 
streaked  her  forearms;  she  kissed  them  gently,  moved  to 
self-adoration  by  the  sweet  scent  of  femininity  that  rose 
from  her. 

She  tore  herself  away  from  her  self-worship  and  quickly 
began  to  dress.  She  put  on  a  light  skirt  in  serge,  striped 
black  and  white,  threading  her  head  through  it  with  great 
care  for  fear  she  should  damage  her  fringe  net.  She  drew 
on  a  white  blouse,  simple  enough  though  cheap.  As  it 
fastened  along  the  side  she  did  not  have  to  call  in  Miss 
Briggs;  which  was  fortunate,  as  this  was  the  time  when 
Miss  Briggs  carried  coals.  Victoria  wriggled  for  a  mo- 
ment to  settle  the  uncomfortable  boning  of  the  neck  and, 
having  buckled  and  belted  the  skirt  over  the  blouse,  com- 
pleted her  toilet  with  her  little  black  and  white  jacket  to 
match  the  skirt.  A  tiny  black  silk  cravat  from  her  neck 
was  discarded,  as  she  found  that  the  fashionable  ruffle, 
emerging  from  the  closed  coat,  produced  an  effet  mousque- 
taire.  Lastly  she  put  on  her  hat;  a  lapse  from  the  fashions 
perhaps,  but  a  lovable,  flat,  almost  crownless,  dead  black, 
save  a  vertical  group  of  feathers. 

Victoria  drew  her  veil  down,  regretting  the  thickness 
of  the  spots,  pushed  it  up  to  repair  with  a  dab  of  powder 
the  ravage  of  a  pod  on  the  tip  of  her  nose.  She  took  up 
lier  parasol  and  white  gloves,  a  glow  of  excitement  already 
creeping  over  her  as  she  realised  how  cleverly  she  must 
have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  profession  to  look  the  actress 
to  the  life  and  yet  remain  in  the  note  of  the  demure 
widow. 

Soho  Place  is  neither  one  of  the  "good"  streets  nor 
one  of  the  "bad."  The  police  do  not  pace  it  in  twos 
and  threes  in  broad  daylight,  yet  they  hardly  like  to 
venture  into  it  singly  by  night.  On  one  side  it  ends  in  a 
square;  on  the  other  it  turns  off  into  an  unobtrusive  side 
street,  the  reputation  of  which  varies  yard  by  yard  ac- 
cording to  the  distance  from  the  main  roads.  It  is  dirty, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  71 

dingy;  yet  not  without  dignity,  for  its  good  Georgian  and 
Victorian  houses  preserve  some  solidity  and  are  not  yet  of 
the  tenement  class.  They  are  still  in  the  grade  of  office 
and  shop  which  is  immediately  below  their  one-time  status 
of  dwellings  for  well-to-do  merchants. 

Victoria  entered  Soho  Place  from  the  square,  so  that 
she  was  not  too  ill  impressed.  She  walked  in  the  middle 
of  the  pavement,  unconsciously  influenced  by  the  foreign 
flavour  of  Soho.  There  men  and  women  stand  all  day  in 
the  street,  talking,  bargaining,  quarrelling  and  making 
love;  when  a  cab  rattles  by  they  move  aside  lazily,  as  a 
Neapolitan  stevedore  rolls  away  on  the  wharf  from  the 
wheels  of  a  passing  cart. 

Victoria  paused  for  a  second  on  the  steps.  No.  5 
Soho  Place  was  a  good  house  enough.  The  ground  floor 
was  occupied  by  a  firm  of  auctioneers;  a  gentleman  de- 
scribing himself  as  A.R.T.B.A.  exercised  his  profession  on 
the  third  floor;  below  his  plate  was  nailed  a  visiting-card 
similar  to  the  one  Victoria  took  from  her  reticule.  She 
went  up  the  staircase  feeling  a  little  braced  by  the  respec- 
tability of  the  house,  though  she  had  caught  sight  through 
the  area  railings  of  an  unspeakably  dirty  kitchen  where 
unwashed  pots  flaunted  greasy  remains  on  a  liquor  stained 
deal  table.  The  staircase  itself,  with  its  neutral  and 
stained  green  distemper,  was  not  over  encouraging.  Vic- 
toria stopped  at  the  first  landing.  She  had  no  need  to 
enquire  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  impresario  for,  on 
a  door  which  stood  ajar,  was  nailed  another  dirty  card. 
Just  as  she  was  about  to  push  it,  it  opened  further  to  allow 
a  girl  to  come  out.  She  was  very  fair;  her  cheeks  were 
a  little  flushed;  a  golden  lock  or  two  fell  like  keepsake 
ringlets  on  her  low  lace  collar.  Victoria  just  had  time  to 
see  that  the  blue  eyes  sparkled  and  to  receive  a  cheerful 
smile.  The  girl  muttered  an  apology  and,  smiling  still, 
brushed  past  her  and  lightly  ran  down  the  stairs.  "A  suc- 
cessful candidate,"  thought  Victoria,  her  heart  rising  once 
more. 

She  entered  the  room  and  found  it  empty.  It  was 
almost  entirely  bare  of  furniture,  for  little  save  an  island 
of  chairs  in  the  middle  and  faded  red  cloth  curtains  re- 


72  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

lieved  the  uniform  dirtiness  of  the  wall  paper  which  once 
was  flowered.  One  wall  was  entirely  covered  by  a  large 
poster  where  half  a  dozen  impossibly  charming  girls  of  the 
biscuit  type  were  executing  a  cancan  so  symmetrically  as 
to  recall  an  Egyptian  frieze.  The  mantelpiece  was  bare1 
save  for  the  signed  photograph  of  some  magnificent  for- 
eign-looking athlete,  nude  to  the  waist.  Victoria  waited 
for  a  moment,  watching  a  door  which  led  into  an  inner 
room,  then  went  towards  it.  At  once  the  sound  of  a  chair 
being  pushed  back  and  the  fall  of  some  small  article  on 
the  floor  told  her  that  the  occupant  had  heard  her  foot- 
steps. The  door  opened  suddenly. 

Victoria  looked  at  the  apparition  with  some  surprise. 
In  a  single  glance  she  took  in  the  details  of  his  face  and 
clothes,  all  of  which  were  pleasing.  The  man  was  ob- 
viously a  foreigner.  His  face  was  pale,  clean  shaven  save 
for  a  small  black  moustache  closely  cropped  at  the  ends; 
his  eyes  were  brown ;  his  eyebrows,  as  beautifully  pencilled 
as  those  of  a  girl,  emphasised  the  whiteness  of  his  high 
forehead  from  which  the  hair  receded  in  thick  waves.  His 
lips,  red  and  full,  were  parted  over  his  white  teeth  in  a 
pleasant  smile.  Victoria  saw,  too,  that  he  was  dressed  in 
perfect  taste,  in  soft  grey  tweed,  fitting  well  over  the  collar 
and  loose  everywhere  else;  his  linen  was  immaculate;  in 
fact,  nothing  about  him  would  have  disgraced  the  Chan- 
draga  mess,  except  perhaps  a  gold  ring  with  a  large  dia- 
mond which  he  wore  on  the  little  finger  of  his  right  hand. 

"Mr.  Carrel?"  said  Victoria  in  some  trepidation. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  man  pleasantly.  "Will 
you  have  the  kindness  to  enter?"  He  held  the  door  open 
and  Victoria,  hesitating  a  little,  preceded  him. 

The  inner  room  was  almost  a  replica  of  the  outer.  It, 
too,  was  scantily  furnished.  On  a  large  table  heaps  of 
dusty  papers  were  stacked.  An  ash-tray  overflowed  over 
one  end.  In  a  corner  stood  a  rickety-looking  piano.  The 
walls  were  profusely  decorated  with  posters  and  photo- 
graphs, presumably  of  actors  and  actresses,  some  highly 
renowned.  Victoria  felt  respect  creeping  into  her  soul. 

Carrel  placed  a  chair  for  her  before  the  table  and  re- 
sumed liis  own.  For  the  space  of  a  second  or  two  he 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  73 

looked  Victoria  over.  She  was  a  little  too  conscious  of 
his  scrutiny  to  be  quite  at  ease,  but  she  was  not  afraid 
of  the  verdict. 

"So,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  man  gently,  "you  wish 
for  an  engagement  on  the  stage?" 

Victoria  had  not  expected  such  directness.  "Yes,  I  do," 
she  said.  "That  is,  I  was  thinking  of  it  since  I  got  your 
card." 

"My  card?"  said  Carrel,  raising  his  eyebrows  a  little. 
"How  did  you  get  my  card?" 

Victoria  told  him  briefly  how  the  card  had  been  thrust 
into  her  hand,  how  curious  it  was  and  how  surprised  she 
had  been  as  she  did  not  know  the  woman  and  had  never 
seen  her  again.  Then  she  frankly  confessed  that  she  had 
no  experience  of  the  stage  but  wanted  to  earn  her  living 
and  that  .  .  .  She  stopped  aghast  at  the  tactical  error. 
But  Carrel  was  looking  at  her  fixedly,  a  smile  playing  on 
his  lips  as  he  pulled  his  tiny  moustache  with  his  jewelled 
hand. 

"Yes,  certainly,  I  understand,"  he  said.  "Experience 
is  very  useful,  naturally.  But  you  must  begin  and  you 
know:  il  n'y  a  que  le  premier  pas  gut  coute.  Now  per- 
haps you  can  sing?  It  would  be  very  useful." 

"Yes,  I  can  sing,"  said  Victoria  doubtfully,  suppressing: 
"a  little,"  remembering  her  first  mistake. 

"Ah,  that  is  good,"  said  Carrel,  smiling.  "Will  you 
sit  down  to  the  piano?  I  have  no  music;  ladies  always 
bring  it,  but  do  you  not  know  something  by  heart?" 

Victoria  got  up,  her  heart  beating  a  little  and  went 
to  the  piano.  "I  don't  know  anything  French,"  she  said. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  said  Carrel,  "you  will  learn 
easily."  He  lowered  the  piano  stool  for  her.  As  she  sat 
down  the  side  of  his  head  brushed  her  shoulder  lightly.  A 
faint  scent  of  heliotrope  rose  from  his  hair. 

Victoria  dragged  off  her  gloves  nervously,  felt  for  the 
pedals  and  with  a  voice  that  trembled  a  little  sang  two 
ballads  which  had  always  pleased  Lympton.  The  piano 
was  frightfully  out  of  tune.  Everything  conspired  to 
make  her  nervous.  It  was  only  when  she  struck  the  last 
note  that  she  looked  at  the  impresario. 


74  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Very  good,  very  good,"  cried  Carrel.  "Magnifique. 
Mademoiselle,  you  have  a  beautiful  voice.  You  will  be 
a  great  success  at  Vichy." 

"Vichy?"  echoed  Victoria,  a  little  overwhelmed  by  his 
approval  of  a  voice  which  she  knew  to  be  quite  ordi- 
nary. 

"Yes,  I  have  a  troupe  to  sing  and  dance  at  Vichy  and 
in  the  towns,  Clermont  Ferrand,  Lyon,  everywhere.  I 
will  engage  you  to  sing  and  dance,"  said  Carrel,  his  dark 
eyes  sparkling. 

"Oh,  I  can't  dance,"  cried  Victoria  despairingly. 

"But  I  assure  you,  it  is  not  difficult,"  said  Carrel.  "We 
will  teach  you.  There,  I  will  show  you  the  contract.  As 
you  have  not  had  much  experience  my  syndicate  can  only 
pay  you  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month.  But  we 
will  pay  the  expenses  and  the  costumes." 

Victoria  looked  doubtful  for  a  moment.  To  sing,  to 
dance,  to  go  to  France  where  she  had  never  been,  all  this 
was  sudden  and  momentous. 

"Voyons,"  said  Carrel,  "it  will  be  quite  easy.  I  am 
taking  four  English  ladies  with  you  and  two  do  not  under- 
stand the  theatre.  You  will  make  more  money  if  the  audi- 
ence like  you.  Here  is  the  contract."  He  drew  a  printed 
sheet  out  of  the  drawer  and  handed  it  to  her. 

It  was  an  impressive  document  with  a  heavy  headline; 
Troupe  de  Theatre  Anglaise.  It  bore  a  French  revenue 
stamp  and  contained  half-a-dozen  clauses  in  French  which 
she  struggled  through  painfully;  she  could  only  guess  at 
their  meaning.  So  far  as  she  could  see  she  was  bound 
to  sing  and  dance  according  to  the  programme  which  was 
to  be  fixed  by  the  Directeur,  twice  every  day  including 
Sundays.  The  syndicat  undertook  to  pay  the  railway 
fares  and  to  provide  costumes.  She  hesitated,  then  crossed 
the  Rubicon. 

"Fill  in  the  blanks,  please,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "I 
accept." 

Carrel  took  up  a  pen  and  wrote  in  the  date  and  cent 
cinquante  francs.  "What  name  will  you  adopt?"  he  asked, 
"and  what  is  your  own  name?" 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  75 

Victoria  hesitated.  "My  name  is  Victoria  Fulton,"  she 
said.  "You  may  call  me  ...  Aminta  Ormond." 

Carrel  smiled  once  more.  "Aminta  Ormond?  I  do 
not  think  you  will  like  that.  It  is  not  English.  It  is  like 
Amanda.  No!  I  have  it,  Gladys  Oxford,  it  is  excellent." 

Before  she  could  protest  he  had  begun  writing.  After 
all,  what  did  it  matter?  She  signed  the  document  without 
a  word. 

"Voila,"  said  Carrel  smoothly,  locking  the  drawer  on 
the  contract.  "We  leave  from  Charing  Cross  on  Wednes- 
day evening.  So  you  have  two  days  to  prepare  yourself. 
Monsieur  le  Directeur  will  meet  you  under  the  clock  at  a 
quarter  past  eight.  The  train  leaves  at  nine.  We  will 
take  your  ticket  when  you  arrive.  Please  come  here  at 
four  on  Wednesday  and  I  will  introduce  you  to  the  Di- 
recteur." 

Victoria  got  up  and  mechanically  shook  hands.  Carrel 
opened  the  door  for  her  and  ceremoniously  bowed  her 
out.  She  walked  into  Soho  Place  as  in  a  dream,  every 
pulse  in  her  body  thrilling  with  unwonted  adventure.  She 
stared  at  a  dirty  window  pane  and  wondered  at  the  bril- 
liance it  threw  back  from  her  eyes. 

CHAPTER  XII 

VICTORIA  had  forgotten  her  latchkey.  Miss  Briggs 
opened  the  door  for  her.  Her  sallow  face  brightened  up. 

"There's  a  gentleman  waiting,  mum,"  she  said,  and 
"  'ere's  a  telegram.  Came  jest  five  minutes  after  you 
left.  I've  put  him  in  the  front  room  what's  empty,  mum. 
Thought  you'd  rather  see  him  there.  Been  'ere  'arf  an 
'our,  mum." 

Victoria  did  not  attempt  to  disentangle  the  hours  of 
arrival  of  the  gentleman  and  the  telegram;  she  tore  open 
the  brown  envelope  excitedly.  It  only  heralded  the  com- 
ing of  Edward  who  was  doubtless  the  gentleman. 

"Thanks,  Miss  Briggs,"  she  said,  "it's  my  brother." 

"Yes,  mum,  nice  young  gentleman.  He's  all  right; 
been  reading  the  New  Age,  mum,  this  'arf  hour,  what 
belongs  to  the  lady  on  the  third." 


7 6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  smiled  and  went  into  the  dining-room,  where 
none  dine  in  lodging  houses  save  ghosts.  Edward  was 
standing  near  the  mantelpiece  immersed  in  the  paper. 

"Why,  Ted,  this  is  nice  of  you,"  cried  Victoria,  going 
up  to  him  and  taking  his  hand. 

"I  had  to  come  up  to  town  suddenly,"  said  Edward,  "to 
get  books  for  the  Head.  I'm  going  back  this  afternoon, 
but  I  thought  I'd  look  you  up.  Did  you  get  the  tele- 
gram?" 

"Just  got  it  now,"  said  Victoria,  showing  it,  "so  you 
might  have  saved  the  sixpence." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Edward.  "I  didn't  know  until  this 
morning." 

"It  doesn't  matter.    I'm  so  glad  to  see  you." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Edward  brushed  away 
the  hair  from  his  forehead.  His  hands  flew  back  to  his 
watch-chain.  Victoria  had  briefly  written  to  him  to  tell 
him  why  she  left  the  Holts.  Fearful  of  all  that  touches 
women,  he  was  acutely  conscious  that  he  blamed  her  and 
yet  knew  her  to  be  blameless. 

"It's  a  beautiful  day,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Isn't  it?"  agreed  Victoria,  looking  at  him  with  sur- 
prise. There  was  another  pause. 

"What  are  you  doing  just  now,  Vic?"  Edward  breathed 
more  freely,  having  taken  the  plunge. 

"I've  just  got  some  work,"  said  Victoria.  "I  begin  on 
Wednesday." 

"Oh,  indeed?"  said  Edward  with  increasing  interest. 
"Have  you  got  a  post  as  companion?" 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  said  Victoria.  She  realised  that 
her  story  was  not  very  easy  to  tell  a  man  like  Edward. 
He  looked  at  her  sharply.  His  face  flushed.  His  brow 
puckered.  With  both  hands  he  grasped  his  watch-chain. 

"I  hope,  Victoria,"  he  said  severely,  "that  you  are  not 
adopting  an  occupation  unworthy  of  a  lady.  I  mean  I 
know  you  couldn't,"  he  added,  his  severity  melting  into 
nervousness. 

"I  suppose  nothing's  unworthy,"  said  Victoria;  "the  fact 
is,  Ted,  I'm  afraid  you  won't  like  it  much,  but  I'm  going 
on  the  stage." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  77 

Edward  started  and  flushed  like  an  angry  boy.  "On 
the  .  .  .  the  stage?"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria  quietly.  "I've  got  an  engagement 
.for  six  months  to  play  at  Vichy  and  other  places  in 
France.  I  only  get  six  pounds  a  month  but  they  pay  all 
the  expenses.  I'll  have  quite  thirty  pounds  clear  when 
I  come  back.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"It's  .  .  .  it's  awful,"  cried  Edward,  losing  all  self- 
consciousness.  "How  can  you  do  such  a  thing,  Vic?  If 
it  were  in  London,  it  would  be  different.  You  simply 
can't  do  it." 

"Can't?"  asked  Victoria,  raising  her  eyebrows.    "Why?" 

"It's  not  done.  No,  really,  Vic,  you  can't  do  it,"  Ed- 
ward was  evidently  disturbed.  Fancy  a  sister  of  his  ... 
It  was  preposterous. 

"I'm  sorry,  Ted,"  said  Victoria,  "but  I'm  going  on 
Wednesday.  I've  signed  the  agreement." 

Edward  looked  at  her  almost  horror-struck.  His  spec- 
tacles had  slid  down  to  the  sharp  tip  of  his  nose. 

"You  are  doing  very  wrong,  Victoria,"  he  said,  resum- 
ing his  pedagogic  gravity.  "You  could  have  done  nothing 
that  I  should  have  disapproved  of  as  much.  You  should 
have  looked  out  for  something  else." 

"Looked  out  for  something  else?"  said  Victoria  with  the 
suspicion  of  a  sneer.  "Look  here,  Ted.  I  know  you  mean 
well,  but  I  know  what  I'm  doing;  I  haven't  been  in  London 
for  six  months  without  finding  out  that  life  is  hard  on 
women  like  me.  I'm  no  good  because  I'm  too  good  for  a 
poor  job  and  not  suitable  for  a  superior  one.  So  I've  just 
got  to  do  what  I  can." 

"Why  didn't  you  try  for  a  post  as  companion?"  asked 
Edward  with  a  half  snarl. 

"Try  indeed!  Anybody  can  see  you  haven't  had  to 
try,  Ted.  I've  tried  everything  I  could  think  of,  agencies, 
societies,  papers,  everything.  I  can't  get  a  post.  I  must 
do  something.  I've  got  to  take  what  I  can  get.  I  know 
it  now;  we  women  are  just  raw  material.  The  world  uses 
as  much  of  us  as  it  needs  and  throws  the  rest  on  the  scrap 
heap.  Do  you  think  I  don't  keep  my  eyes  open?  Do  you 
think  I  don't  see  that  when  you  want  somebody  to  do 


78  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

double  work  at  half  rates  you  get  a  woman?  And  she 
thanks  God  and  struggles  for  the  work  that's  too  dirty 
or  too  hard  for  a  man  to  touch." 

Victoria  paced  up  and  down  the  small  room,  carried 
away  by  her  vehemence.  Edward  said  nothing.  He  was 
much  upset  and  did  not  know  what  to  say;  he  had  never 
seen  Victoria  like  this  and  he  was  constitutionally  afraid 
of  vigour. 

"I'm  sorry,  Ted,"  said  Victoria,  stopping  suddenly. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve.  "There,  don't  sulk  with 
me.  Let's  go  out  to  lunch  and  I'll  go  anc1  choose  your 
books  with  you  after.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"I  don't  want  to  discuss  the  matter  again,"  replied 
Edward  with  as  much  composure  as  he  could  muster. 
"Yes,  let's  go  out  to  lunch." 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  without  another  word  on 
the  subject  of  Victoria's  downfall.  She  saw  Edward  off 
at  St.  Pancras.  After  he  had  said  good-bye  to  her,  he 
suddenly  leaned  out  of  the  window  of  the  railway  car- 
riage as  if  to  speak,  then  changed  his  mind  and  sank  back 
on  the  seat.  Victoria  smiled  at  her  victory. 

Next  morning  she  broke  the  news  to  Miss  Briggs.  The 
landlady  seemed  amazed  as  well  as  concerned. 

"You  seem  rather  taken  aback,"  said  Victoria. 

"Well,  mum,  you  see  it's  a  funny  thing  the  stage; 
young  ladies  all  seems  to  think  it's  easy  to  get  on.  And 
then  they  don't  get  on.  And  there  you  are." 

"Well,  I  am  on,"  said  Victoria,  "so  I  shall  have  to 
leave  on  Wednesday." 

"Sorry  to  lose  you,  mum,"  said  Miss  Briggs.  "  'ope 
yer'll  'ave  a  success.  In  course,  as  you  'aven't  given  me 
notice,  mum,  it'll  'ave  to  be  a  week's  money  more." 

"Oh,  come,  Miss  Briggs,  this  is  too  bad,"  cried  Vic- 
toria, "why,  you've  got  a  whole  floor  vacant!  What 
would  it  have  mattered  if  I  had  given  you  notice?" 

"Might  have  let  it,  mum.  Besides,  it's  the  law,"  said 
Miss  Briggs,  placing  her  arms  akimbo,  ready  for  the  fray. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Victoria  coldly,  "don't  let's  say 
anything  more  about  it." 

Miss   Briggs  looked   at  her  critically.     "No  offence 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  79 

meant,  mum,"  she  said  timidly,  "it's  a  'ard  life,  lodgers." 

"Indeed?"  said  Victoria  without  any  show  of  interest. 

"You  wouldn't  believe  it,  mum,  all  I've  got  to  put  up 
with.  There's  Hetty  now  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  Miss  Briggs,"  said  Victoria  impatiently, 
"you've  told  me  about  Hetty." 

"To  be  sure,  mum,"  replied  Miss  Briggs,  humbly.  "It 
ain't  easy  to  make  ends  meet.  What  with  the  rent  and 
them  Borough  Council  rates.  There  ain't  no  end  to  it, 
mum.  I  lives  in  the  basement,  mum,  and  that  means  gas 
all  the  afternoon,  mum." 

Victoria  looked  at  her  again.  This  was  a  curious  out- 
look. The  poor  troglodyte  had  translated  the  glory  of 
the  sun  into  cubic  feet  of  gas. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  hard,"  she  said  reflectively. 

"To  be  sure,  mum,"  mused  Miss  Briggs.  "Sometimes 
you  can't  let  at  all.  I've  watched  through  the  area  rail- 
ings, mum,  many  a  long  day  in  August,  wondering  if  the 
legs  I  can  see  was  coming  'ere.  They  don't  mostly,  mum." 

"Then  why  do  you  go  on?"  asked  Victoria,  hardening 
suddenly. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  mum?  I  just  gets  my  board  and 
lodging  out  of  it,  mum.  Keeps  one  respectable;  always 
been  respectable,  mum.  That  ain't  so  easy  in  London, 
mum.  Ah,  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  might  have  been  dif- 
ferent, mum;  you  should  have  seen  me  'air.  Curls  like 
anything,  mum,  when  I  puts  it  in  papers.  'Ad  a  bit  of  a 
figure,  too,  mum." 

"Deary  me!" 

Victoria  looked  with  sympathy  at  the  hard  thin  face, 
the  ragged  hair.  Yes,  she  was  respectable  enough,  poor 
Miss  Briggs!  Women  have  a  hard  life.  No  wonder  they, 
too,  are  hard.  You  cannot  afford  to  be  earthenware 
among  the  brass  pots. 

"What  will  you  do  when  you  can't  run  the  house  any 
more?"  she  asked  more  gently. 

"Do,  mum?    I  dunno." 

Yet  another  philosophy. 

"Miss  Briggs,"  came  a  man's  voice  from  the  stairs. 


SO  A  tt£D  Of 

"Coining,  sir,"  yelled  Miss  Briggs  in  the  penetrating 
tone  that  calling  from  cellar  to  attic  teaches. 

"Where  are  my  boots?"  said  the  voice  on  the  stairs. 

"I'll  get  'em  for  you,  sir,"  cried  Miss  Briggs  shuffling 
to  the  door  on  her  worn  slippers. 

Life  is  a  hard  thing,  thought  Victoria  again.  Another 
woman  for  the  scrap  heap.  Fourteen  hours  work  a  day, 
nightmares  of  unlet  rooms,  boots  to  black  and  coals  to 
carry,  dirt,  loneliness,  harsh  words  and  at  the  end  "I 
dunno."  Is  that  to  be  my  fate?  she  wondered. 

However,  her  blood  soon  raced  again;  she  was  an  ac- 
tress, she  was  going  abroad,  she  was  going  to  see  the 
world,  to  enslave  it,  to  have  adventures,  live.  It  was 
good.  All  that  day  Victoria  trod  on  air.  She  no  longer 
felt  her  loneliness.  The  sun  was  out  and  aglow,  bringing 
in  its  premature  exuberance  joyful  moisture  to  her  temples. 
She,  with  the  world,  was  young.  In  a  fit  of  extravagance 
she  lunched  at  a  half  crown  table  d'hote  in  Oxford  Street, 
where  pink  shades  softly  diffuse  the  light  on  shining  glass 
and  silver.  The  coffee  was  almost  regal,  so  strong,  so  full 
of  sap.  The  light  of  triumph  was  in  her  eyes,  making 
men  turn  back,  sometimes  follow  and  look  into  her  face, 
half  appealing,  half  insolent.  But  Victoria  was  uncon- 
scious of  them,  for  the  world  was  at  her  feet.  She  was 
the  axis  of  the  earth.  It  was  in  such  a  frame  of  mind  that, 
the  next  day,  she  climbed  the  steps  of  Soho  Place,  careless 
of  the  view  into  the  underground  kitchen,  of  the  two  dogs 
who  under  the  archway  fought,  growling,  fouling  the  air 
with  the  scents  of  their  hides,  over  a  piece  of  offal.  She 
ran  up  the  stairs  lightly.  The  door  was  still  ajar. 

Two  men  were  sitting  in  the  anteroom,  both  smoking 
briar  pipes.  The  taller  of  the  two  got  up. 

"Yes?"  he  said  interrogatively. 

"I  .  .  .  you  ...  is  Mr.  Carrel  here?"  asked  Victoria 
nervously. 

"No,  Miss,"  said  the  man  calmly,  "he's  just  gone  to 
Marlborough  Street." 

"Oh,"  said  Victoria,  still  nervous,  "will  he  be  long?" 

"I  should  say  so,  miss,"  replied  the  man,  "perhaps 
twelve  months,  perhaps  more." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  81 

Victoria  gasped.  "I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  but 
her  heart  began  to  beat. 

"Don't  s'pose  you  would,  miss,"  said  the  short  man, 
getting  up.  "Fact  is,  miss,  we're  the  police  and  we've  had 
to  take  him;  just  about  time  we  did,  too.  Leaving  for 
France  to-night  with  a  batch  of  girls.  S'pose  you're  one 
of  them?" 

"I  was  going  to-night,"  said  Victoria  faintly. 

"May  I  have  your  name?"  asked  the  tall  man  politely, 
taking  out  a  pocketbook. 

"Fulton,"  she  faltered.    "Victoria  Fulton." 

"M'yes,  that's  it.  Gladys  Oxford,"  said  the  tall  man, 
turning  back  a  page.  "Well,  Miss,  you  can  thank  your 
stars  you're  out  of  it." 

"But  what  has  he  done?"  asked  Victoria  with  an  effort. 

"Lord,  Miss,  you're  from  the  country,  I  can  see,"  said 
the  short  man  amiably.  "I  thought  everybody  knew  that 
little  game.  Take  you  over  to  Vichy,  you  know.  Make 
you  dance  and  sing.  Provide  costumes."  He  winked  at 
his  companion. 

"Costumes,"  said  Victoria,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"Costumes  don't  mean  much,  Miss,  over  there,"  said 
the  tall  man.  "Fact  is,  you'd  have  to  wear  what  they 
like  and  sing  what  they  like  when  you  pass  the  plate  round 
among  the  customers." 

Something  seemed  to  freeze  in  Victoria. 

"He  said  it  was  a  theatre  of  varieties,"  she  gasped. 

"Quite  true,"  said  the  tall  man  with  returning  cynicism. 
"A  theatre  right  enough,  but  you'd  have  supplied  the  va- 
riety to  the  customers." 

Victoria  clenched  her  hands  on  the  handle  of  her  para- 
sol. Then  she  turned  to  fly. 

The  short  man  stopped  her  and  demanded  her  address, 
informing  her  that  she  was  to  attend  at  Marlborough  Street 
next  day  at  eleven-thirty. 

"Case  mayn't  be  called  before  i  velve,"  he  added. 
"Sorry  to  trouble  you,  Miss.  You  won't  hear  any  more 
about  it  unless  it's  a  case  for  the  Sessions." 

Victoria  ran  down  the  steps,  through  the  alley  and  into 
Charing  Cross  Road  as  if  something  was  tracking  her, 


82  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

tracking  her  down.  So  this  was  the  end  of  the  dream. 
She  had  stretched  her  hand  out  to  the  roses,  and  the  gods, 
less  merciful  to  her  than  to  Tantalus,  had  filled  her  palm 
with  thorns.  It  was  horrible,  horrible.  She  had  imagina- 
tion, and  a  memory  of  old  prints  after  Rowlandson,  which 
her  father  had  treasured,  came  back  to  her  with  almost 
nauseating  force.  She  pictured  the  French  cafe  chantant 
like  the  Cave  of  Harmony ;  rough  boards  on  trestles,  laden 
with  tankards  of  foaming  beer,  muddy  lights,  a  foulness  of 
tobacco  smoke,  a  raised  stage  with  an  enormous  woman 
singing  on  it,  her  eye  frightfully  dilated  by  belladonna, 
her  massive  arms  and  legs  gleaming  behind  the  dirty  foot- 
lights and  everywhere  around  men  smoking,  with  noses 
like  snouts,  bodies  like  swine's,  hairy  hands — hands,  ye 
gods! 

She  walked  quickly  away  from  the  place  of  revelation. 
She  hurried  through  the  five  o'clock  inferno  of  Trafalgar 
Square,  careless  of  the  traffic,  escaping  death  ten  times. 
She  hurried  down  the  spaces  of  Whitehall,  and  only  slack- 
ened her  pace  at  Westminster  Bridge.  There  she  stopped 
for  a  moment;  the  sun  was  setting  and  gilded  and  em- 
purpled the  foreshores.  The  horror  of  the  past  half  hour 
seemed  to  fade  away  as  she  watched  the  roses  and  mauves 
bloom  and  blend,  the  deep  shadows  of  the  embankments 
rise  and  fall.  Near  by,  a  vagrant,  every  inch  of  him 
clothed  in  rags,  the  dirt  of  his  face  mimicking  their  colour, 
smoked  a  short  clay  pipe,  puffing  at  long  intervals  small 
wreaths  of  smoke  into  the  blue  air.  And  as  Victoria 
watched  them  form,  rise  and  vanish  into  nothingness,  the 
sun  kiss  gently  but  pitilessly  the  old  vagrant  hunched  up 
against  the  parapet,  the  horror  seemed  to  melt  away.  The 
peace  of  the  evening  was  expelling  it,  but  another  dread 
visitor  was  heralded  in.  Victoria  felt  like  lead  in  her  heart, 
the  return  of  uncertainty.  Once  more  she  was  an  outcast. 
No  work.  Once  more  she  must  ask  herself  what  to  do  and 
find  no  answer. 

The  river  glittered  and  rose  and  fell,  as  if  inviting  her. 
Victoria  shuddered.  It  was  not  yet  time  for  that.  She 
turned  back  and,  with  downcast  eyes,  made  for  St. 
James's  Park.  There  she  sat  for  a  moment  watching  a 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  83 

pelican  flop  on  his  island,  the  waterfowl  race  and  dive. 
The  problem  of  life  was  upon  her  now  and  where  was  the 
solution?  Must  I  tread  the  mill  once  more?  thought  Vic- 
toria. The  vision  of  agencies  again,  of  secretaries  cour- 
teous or  rude,  of  waits  and  hopes  and  despairs,  all  rushed 
at  her  and  convinced  her  of  the  uselessness  of  it  all.  She 
was  alone,  always  alone,  because  she  wanted  to  be  free,  to 
be  happy,  to  live.  Perhaps  she  had  been  wrong  after  all 
to  resist  the  call  of  the  river.  She  shuddered  once  more. 
A  couple  passed  her  with  hands  interlocked,  eyes  gazing 
into  eyes.  No,  life  must  hold  forth  to  her  something  to 
make  it  worth  while.  She  was  cold.  She  got  up  and,  with 
nervous  determination,  walked  quickly  towards  the  gate. 
The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  get  quit  of  all  the 
horrors  of  the  day,  to  cut  away  the  wreckage.  She  dared 
not  stay  at  Castle  Street.  She  would  be  tracked.  She 
would  have  to  give  evidence.  She  couldn't  do  it.  She 
couldn't.  Victoria,  having  regained  her  coolness,  was  in 
no  wise  uncertain  as  to  her  course  of  action.  The  first 
thing  to  do  was  for  her  to  lose  herself  in  London,  and  that 
so  deep  that  none  could  drag  her  out  and  force  her  to  tell 
her  story.  She  must  change  her  lodgings  then.  Nothing 
could  be  easier,  as  she  had  already  given  Miss  Briggs  no- 
tice. In  fact  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  keep  up  the 
fiction  of  (her  departure  for  France. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

VICTORIA  entered  her  room.  It  was  in  the  condition  that 
speaks  of  departure.  Her  trunks  were  packed  and  corded, 
all  save  a  small  suitcase  which  still  gaped,  showing  spaces 
among  the  sundries  that  the  skilled  packer  collects  in  the 
same  bundle.  Every  drawer  was  open;  the  bed  was  un- 
made; the  room  was  littered  with  newspapers  and  nonde- 
script articles  discarded  at  the  last  moment.  Victoria  rang 
her  bell  and  quickly  finished  packing  'the  suitcase  with 
soap,  washing  gloves,  powder-puffs  and  such  like.  As 
she  turned  the  key  Miss  Briggs  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  Miss  Briggs,"  said  Victoria  quietly,  "I  find  that  I 


84  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

must  go  down  by  an  earlier  train;  I  must  be  at  Charing 
Cross  in  an  hour;  I'm  going  now." 

"Yes,  mum,"  said  Miss  Briggs  without  interest.  "Shall 
I  tell  the  greengrocer  to  come  now,  mum?" 

"Yes,  please,  Miss  Briggs;  here  are  the  seven  shillings." 

Miss  Briggs  accepted  the  money  without  a  worrd.  It 
had  formed  the  basis  of  a  hot  argument  between  her  and 
her  tenant;  she  considered  herself  entitled  to  one  week's 
rent  in  lieu  of  notice,  but  Victoria's  new-born  sense  of 
business  had  urged  the  fact  that  she  had  had  two  days' 
notice;  this  had  saved  her  three  shillings.  Miss  Briggs 
laboured  under  a  sense  of  injury,  so  she  did  not  see  Vic- 
toria to  the  door. 

This  was  well,  for  Victoria  was  able  to  pay  the  green- 
grocer and  to  get  rid  of  him  in  an  artistic  manner  by 
sending  him  to  post  an  empty  envelope  addressed  to  an 
imaginary  person,  while  she  directed  the  cabman  to  Pad- 
dington;  this  saved  her  awkward  questions  and  would 
leave  Miss  Briggs  under  the  impression  that  she  had  gone 
to  Charing  Cross. 

At  Paddington  station  she  left  her  luggage  in  the  cloak- 
room and  went  out  to  find  lodgings.  Her  quest  was 
short,  for  she  had  ceased  to  be  particular,  so  that  within 
an  hour  she  was  installed  in  an  imposing  ground  floor 
front  in  the  most  respectable  house  in  Star  Street.  The 
district  was  not  so  refined  as  Portsea  Place,  but  the  house 
seemed  clean  and  the  quarters  were  certainly  cheaper; 
eleven  and  six  covered  both  them  and  the  usual  break- 
fast. 

Victoria  surveyed  the  room  in  a  friendly  manner;  there 
was  nothing  attractive  or  repulsive  in  it;  it  was  clean; 
the  furniture  was  almost  exactly  similar  to  that  which 
graced  her  lodgings  in  Portsea  Place  and  in  Castle  Street. 
The  landlady  seemed  a  friendly  body,  and  had  already 
saved  Victoria  a  drain  on  her  small  store  by  sending  her 
son,  an  out-of-work  furrier's  hand,  to  fetch  the  luggage  in 
a  handcart.  Remembering  that  she  was  a  fugitive  from 
justice  she  gave  her  name  as  Miss  Ferris. 

Victoria  returned  from  a  hurried  tea,  unpacked  with 
content  the  trunk  that  should  have  followed  her  to  France, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  85 

She  was  almost  exhilarated  by  the  feeling  of  safety  which 
enveloped  her  like  comforting  warmth.  The  day  was 
blithe  in  unison.  She  felt  quite  safe,  every  movement  of 
her  flight  having  been  so  skilfully  calculated;  she  was 
revelling  therefore  in  her  escape  from  danger,  the  deepest 
and  truest  of  all  joys. 

The  next  morning,  however,  found  her  in  the  familiar 
mood  of  wondering  what  was  to  become  of  her.  After  an 
extremely  inferior  breakfast,  which  brought  down  upon 
the  already  awed  Mrs.  Smith  well  deserved  reproaches, 
Victoria  investigated  the  Telegraph  columns  with  the  usual 
negative  results  and,  in  the  resultant  acid  frame  of  mind, 
went  through  her  accounts  and  discovered  that  her  posses- 
sions amounted  to  twelve  pounds,  eight  shillings  and  four 
pence.  This  was  a  terrible  blow;  the  outfit  for  the  inter- 
view with  Carrel  and  the  trip  to  France  had  dug  an  enor- 
mous hole  in  Victoria's  resources. 

"I  must  hurry  up  and  find  something,"  said  Victoria  to 
herself.  "Twelve  pounds  eight  and  fourpence — say  twelve 
weeks — and  then?" 

The  next  morning  reconciled  her  a  little  to  her  fate. 
True,  the  paper  yielded  no  help,  but  a  lengthy  account  of 
Carrel's  preliminary  examination  occupied  three-quarters 
of  a  column  in  the  po!;ce  court  report.  It  was  appar- 
ently a  complicated  case,  for  Carrel  had  been  remanded 
and  bail  refused.  The  report  did  not  yield  her  much  in- 
formation. Apparently  Carrel  was  indicted  for  other 
counts  than  the  export  of  the  dancing  girls  to  Vichy, 
for  nine  women  had  appeared.  Victoria  had  quite  a  thrill 
of  horror  when  she  read  the  line  in  -vhich  the  well-schooled 
reporter  dismissed  the  evidence  of  Miss  aS,"  by  saying 

that  "Miss  S here  gave  an  account  of  her  experience 

in  the  green  room  of  the  Folichon-Palace  in  1902."  The 
baldness  of  the  statement  was  appaling  in  its  suggestive- 
ness.  She  had  been  called,  apparently,  but  no  comment 
was  made  on  her  non-appearance. 

"That's  all  over,"  said  Victoria  with  decision,  throwing 
the  newspaper  down.  She  rose  from  the  armchair,  shook 
herself  and  opened  the  window  to  let  out  the  smell  of 
breakfast.  Then  she  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves  and  de- 


86  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

cided  to  have  a  walk  to  cheer  herself  up.  Mindful  that 
she  was  in  a  sense  a  fugitive,  she  avoided  the  Marble  Arch 
and  made  for  the  park  through  the  desolate  respectability 
of  Lancaster  Gate. 

She  made  for  the  South  East,  unconsciously  guided  by 
the  hieratic  shot  tower  of  Westminster.  It  was  early;  the 
freshness  of  May  still  bejewelled  with  dew  drops  the  crisp 
new  grass;  the  gravel,  stained  dark  by  moisture,  hardly 
crunched  under  her  feet,  but  gave  like  springy  turf.  For- 
getting her  depleted  exchequer  Victoria  stepped  briskly  as 
if  on  business  bent,  looking  at  nothing,  but  absorbing  as 
through  her  skin  the  kisses  of  the  western  wind.  At  Hyde 
Park  Corner  she  turned  into  St.  James's  Park,  and,  pass- 
ing the  barracks,  received  with  'an  old  familiar  thrill  a 
covert  smile  from  the  handsome  sentry.  After  all  she  was 
young,  and  it  was  good  somehow  to  be  once  more  smiled 
at  by  a  soldier.  Soldiers,  soldiers — stupid,  perhaps,  but 
could  one  help  liking  them?  Victoria  let  her  thoughts  run 
back  to  Dicky — poor  old  wasted  Dicky — and  the  Colonel 
and  his  liver,  and  Bobby,  who  would  never  be  anything 
but  Bobby,  and  Major  Cairns,  too.  Victoria  felt  a  tiny 
pang  as  she  thought  of  the  Major.  He  was  hardly  young 
or  handsome,  but  strong,  reassuring.  She  suddenly  felt 
his  lips  on  her  neck  again  as  she  gazed  rapidly  at  the  dark 
lift  on  the  horizon  of  the  coast  of  Araby.  He  was  a  good 
fellow,  'the  Major.  She  would  like  to  meet  him  again. 

She  had  reached  Westminster  Bridge.  Her  thoughts 
fell  away  from  the  comfortable  presence  of  Major  Cairns. 
Hunched  up  against  the  parapet  sat  the  old  vagrant  she 
had  seen  there  before,  motionless,  his  rags  lifting  in  the 
breeze,  puffs  of  smoke  coming  at  long  intervals  from  his 
short  clay  pipe.  Victoria  shuddered;  it  seemed  as  if  her 
life  were  bound  to  a  wheel,  which  brought  her  back  inex- 
orably to  the  same  spot  until  the  time  came  for  her  to  lose 
there  energy  and  life  itself.  She  turned  quickly  towards 
the  Embankment,  and,  as  she  rounded  the  curve,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  vagrant.  The  symbol  of  time  had  not 
moved. 

Another  twenty  minutes  of  quick  walking  had  brought 
her  to  the  city.  She  was  no  longer  fearful  of  it;  indeed, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  87 

she  almost  enjoyed  its  surge  and  roar.  Log  that  she  was, 
tossed  on  a  stormy  sea,  she  could  not  help  feeling  the  joy 
of  life  in  its  buffeting.  Not  even  the  dullness  and  eternal 
length  of  Queen  Victoria  Street,  which  seems  in  the  city, 
like  Gower  Street,  indefinite  and  interminable,  robbed  her 
of  the  curious  exultation  which  she  felt  whenever  she  en- 
tered the  precincts.  Here  at  least  was  life  and  doing;  ugly 
doing,  perhaps,  but  things  worthy  of  the  name  of  action. 
At  Mansion  House  she  stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  at 
the  turmoil:  drays,  motorbuses,  cabs,  cycles,  entangled 
and  threatening  everywhere  the  little  running  black  mites 
of  humanity. 

As  Victoria  passed  the  bank  and  walked  up  Princes 
Street  she  felt  hungry,  for  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock.  She 
turned  up  a  lane  and  stopped  before  a  small  shop,  which 
arrested  her  attention  by  its  name  above  the  door.  It  was 
called  "The  Rosebud  Cafe,"  every  letter  of  its  name  being 
made  up  of  tiny  roses;  all  the  woodwork  was  painted 
white;  the  door  was  glazed  and  faced  with  pink  curtains; 
pink  half  blinds  lined  the  two  small  windows,  nothing  ap- 
pearing through  them  except,  right  and  left,  two  tall  palms. 
"The  Rosebud"  had  a  freshness  and  newness  that  pleased 
her;  and,  as  it  boldly  announced  luncheons  and  teas,  she 
pushed  the  white  door  open  and  entered.  The  room  was 
larger  than  the  outside  gave  reason  to  think,  for  it  was  all 
in  depth.  It  was  pretty  in  a  style  suggesting  a  combination 
of  Watteau,  Dresden  China,  and  the  top  of  a  biscuit  tin. 
All  the  woodwork  was  white,  relieved  here  and  there  by 
pink  drapery  and  cunningly  selected  water  colours  of  more 
or  less  the  same  tint.  From  the  roof,  at  close  intervals, 
hung  little  baskets  of  paper  roses.  The  back  part  of  the 
room  was  glazed  over,  which  showed  that  it  lay  below  the 
well  of  a  tall  building.  Symmetrically  ranged  were  little 
tables,  some  large  enough  for  four  persons,  mostly,  how- 
ever, meant  for  two,  but  Victoria  noticed  that  they  were 
all  untenanted;  in  fact,  the  room  was  empty,  save  for  a 
woman  who,  on  her  hands  and  knees,  was  loudly  washing 
the  upper  steps  of  a  staircase  leading  into  a  cellar,  and 
for  a  tall  girl  who  stood  on  a  ladder  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  critically  surveying  a  picture  she  had  just  put  up. 


88  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  hesitated  for  a  moment.  The  girl  on  the  ladder 
looked  round  and  jumped  down.  She  was  dressed  in 
severe  black  out  of  which  her  long  white  face,  mantling 
pink  at  the  cheeks,  emerged  like  a  flower;  indeed,  Victoria 
wondered  whether  she  had  been  selected  as  an  attendant 
because  she  was  in  harmony  with  the  colour  scheme  of  the 
shop.  The  girl  was  quite  charming  out  of  sheer  insignifi- 
cance; her  fair  hair  untidily  crowned  her  with  a  halo 
marred  by  flying  wisps.  Her  little  pink  mouth,  perpet- 
ually open  and  pouting  querulous  over  three  white  upper 
teeth,  showed  annoyance  at  being  disturbed. 

"We  aren't  open,"  she  said  with  much  decision.  It 
was  clearly  quite  bad  enough  to  have  to  look  forward  to 
work  on  the  morrow  without  anticipating  the  evil. 

"Oh,"  said  Victoria,  "I'm  sorry,  I  didn't  know." 

"We  open  on  Monday,"  said  the  fair  girl.    "Sharp." 

"Yes?"  answered  Victoria,  vaguely  interested  as  one  is 
in  tilings  newly  born.  "This  ds  a  pretty  place,  isn't  it?" 

A  flicker  of  animation.  The  fair  girl's  blue  eyes  opened 
wider.  "Rather,"  she  said.  "I  did  the  water  colours," 
she  explained  with  pride. 

"How  clever  of  you!"  exclaimed  Victoria.  "I  couldn't 
draw  to  save  my  life." 

"Coloured  them  up,  I  mean,"  the  girl  apologised  grudg- 
ingly. "It  was  a  long  job,  I  can  tell  you." 

Victoria  smiled.  "Well,"  she  said,  "I  must  come  back 
on  Monday  and  see  it  finished  if  I'm  in  the  city." 

"Oh,  aren't  you  in  the  city?"  asked  the  girl.  "West 
End?" 

"No,  not  exactly  West  End,"  said  Victoria.  "I'm  not 
doing  anything  just  now." 

The  fair  girl  gave  her  a  glance  of  faint  suspicion. 

"Oh,  aye,  I  see,"  she  said  slowly,  thoughtfully  consider- 
ing the  rather  full  lines  of  Victoria's  figure. 

Victoria  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  she  saw. 
"I'm  looking  out  for  a  berth,"  she  remarked  casually. 

"Oh,  are  you?"  said  the  girl  with  renewed  animation. 
"What's  your  line?" 

"Anything,"  said  Victoria.  She  looked  round  the  pink 
and  white  shop.  A  feeling  of  weariness  had  suddenly  come 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  89 

over  her.  The  woman  at  the  top  of  the  steps  had  backed 
away  a  little,  and  was  rhythmically  swishing  a  wet  cloth 
on  the  linoleum.  Under  her  untidy  hair  her  neck  gleamed 
red  and  fleshy,  touched  here  and -there  with  beads  of  per- 
spiration. Victoria  took  her  dn  as  unconsciously  as  she 
would  an  ox  patiently  straining  at  the  yoke.  To  and  fro 
the  woman's  body  rocked,  like  a  machine  wound  up  to 
work  until  its  parts  drop  out  worn  and  useless. 

"Ever  done  any  waiting?"  The  voice  of  the  girl  almost 
made  Victoria  jump.  She  saw  herself  being  critically  in- 
spected. 

"No,  never,"  she  faltered.  "That's  to  say,  I  would,  if 
I  got  a  billet." 

"Mm,"  said  the  girl,  eyeing  her  over.    "Mm." 

Victoria's  heart  beat  unreasonably.  "Do  you  know 
where  I  can  get  a  job?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl  very  deliberately,  "the  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  that  we're  short  here.  We  had  a  letter  this 
morning.  One  of  our  girls  left  home  yesterday.  Says 
she  can't  come.  They  don't  know  where  she  is." 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria,  too  excited  to  speculate  as  to  the 
implied  tragedy. 

"If  you  like,  you  can  see  the  manager,"  said  the  girl. 
"He's  down  there."  She  pointed  to  the  cellar. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Victoria,  "it's  awfully  kind 
of  you."  The  fair  girl  walked  to  the  banisters.  "Mr. 
Stein,"  she  cried  shrilly  into  the  darkness. 

There  was  a  rumble,  a  sound  like  the  upsetting  of  a 
chair,  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  A  head  appeared  on  a  level 
with  the  floor. 

"Vat  is  it?"  growled  a  voice. 

"New  girl ;  wants  to  be  taken  on." 

"Veil,  take  her  on,"  growled  the  voice.  "You  are  ze 
'ead  vaitress,  gn,  you  are  responsible." 

Victoria  had  just  time  to  see  the  head,  perfectly  round, 
short-haired,  white-faced,  cloven  by  a  turned-up  black 
moustache,  when  it  vanished  once  more.  The  Germanic 
"gn"  at  the  end  of  the  first  sentence  puzzled  her. 

"Sulky  beast,"  murmured  the  girl.     "Anyhow,  that's 


90  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

settled.    You  know  the  wages,  don't  you?    Eight  bob  a 
week  and  your  lunch  and  tea." 

"Eight  .  .  ."  gasped  Victoria.  "But  I  can't  live  on 
that." 

"My,  you  are  a  green  'un,"  smiled  the  girl.  "With  a 
face  like  that  you'll  make  twenty-five  bob  in  tips  by  the 
time  we've  been  on  for  a  month."  She  looked  again  at 
Victoria  not  unkindly. 

"Tips,"  said  Victoria  reflectively.  Awful.  But  after 
all,  what  did  it  matter. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "put  me  down." 

The  girl  took  her  name  and  address.  "Half-past  eight 
sharp  on  Monday,"  she  said,  "  'cos  it's  opening  day. 
Usual  time  half-past  nine,  off  at  four  two  days  a  -week. 
Other  days  seven.  Nine  o'clock  mid  and  end." 

Victoria  stared  a  little.    This  was  a  business  woman. 

"Sorry,"  said  the  girl,  "must  leave  you.  Got  a  lot  more 
to  do  to-day.  My  name's  Laura.  It'll  have  to  be  Lottie 
though.  Nothing  like  Lottie  to  make  fellows  remember 
you." 

"Remember  you?"  asked  Victoria,  puzzled. 

"Lord,  yes,  how  you  going  to  make  your  station  if  they 
don't  remember  you?"  said  Lottie  snappishly.  "You'll 
learn  right  enough.  You  let  'em  call  you  Vic.  Tell  'em  to. 
You'll  be  all  right.  And  get  yourself  a  black  business 
dress.  We  supply  pink  caps  and  aprons;  charge  you 
sixpence  a  week  for  washing.  You  get  a  black  openwork 
blouse,  mind  you,  with  short  sleeves.  Nothing  like  it  to 
make  your  station." 

"What's  a  station?"  asked  Victoria,  more  bewildered 
than  ever. 

"My,  you  are  a  green  'un!  A  station's  your  tables. 
Five  you  get.  We'll  cut  'em  down  when  they  begin  to 
come  in.  What  you've  got  to  do  is  to  pal  up  with  the 
fellows;  then  they'll  stick  to  you,  see?  Regulars  is  what 
you  want.  The  sort  that  give  no  trouble  'cos  you  know 
their  orders  right  off  and  leave  their  twopence  like  clock- 
work, see?  But  never  you  mind:  you'll  learn."  There- 
upon Lottie  tactfully  pushed  Victoria  towards  the  door. 

Victoria  stepped  past  the  cleaner,  who  was  now  washing 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  91 

the  entrance.  Nothing  could  be  seen  of  her  save  her 
back  heaving  a  little  in  a  filthy  blue  -bodice  and  her  hands, 
large,  red,  ribbed  with  flowing  rivulets  of  black  dirt  and 
water.  As  her  left  hand  swung  to  and  fro,  Victoria  saw 
upon  the  middle  finger  the  golden  strangle  of  a  wedding 
ring  deep  in  the  red  cavity  of  the  swollen  flesh. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

"You  come-back  with  me,  Vic,  don't  you?" 

"You  silly,"  said  Victoria,  witheringly,  "I  don't  go  off 
to-day,  Gertie,  worse  luck." 

"Worse  luck!  I  don't  think,"  cried  Gertie.  "I'll  swap 
with  you,  if  you  like.  As  if  yer  didn't  know  it's  settling 
day.  Why,  there's  two  and  a  kick  in  it!" 

"Shut  it,"  remarked  a  fat,  dark  girl,  placidly  helping 
herself  to  potatoes,  "some  people  make  a  sight  too  much 
out  of  settling  day." 

"Perhaps  yer'll  tell  me  wot  yer  mean,  Miss  Prodgitt," 
snarled  Gertie,  her  brown  eyes  flashing,  her  cockney  accent 
attaining  a  heroic  pitch. 

"What  I  say,"  remarked  Miss  Prodgitt,  with  the  patron- 
ising air  that  usually  accompanies  this  enlightening  answer. 

"Ho,  indeed,"  snapped  Gertie,  "then  p'raps  yer'll  keep 
wot  yer've  got  ter  sye  to  yersel,  Miss  Prodgitt." 

The  fat  girl  opened  her  mouth,  then,  changing  her 
mind,  turned  to  Victoria,  and  informed  her  that  the 
weather  was  very  cold  for  the  time  of  the  year. 

"That'll  do,  Gertie,"  remarked  Lottie,  "you  leave  Bella 
alone  and  hook  it." 

Gertie  glowered  for  a  moment,  wasted  another  look  of 
scorn  on  her  opponent  and  flounced  out  of  the  room  into 
a  cupboard-like  dark  place,  whence  issued  sounds  like  the 
growl  of  an  angry  cat.  Something  had  obviously  hap- 
pened to  her  hat. 

Victoria  looked  round  aimlessly.  She  had  no  appetite; 
for  half-past  three,  the  barbarous  lunch  hour  of  the  Rose- 
bud girls,  seemed  calculated  to  limit  the  food  bill.  By 
her  side  Bella  was  conscientiously  absorbing  the  potatoes 
that  her  daintier  companions  had  left  over  from  the  Irish 


92  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

stew.  Lottie  was  deeply  engrossed  in  a  copy  of  London 
Opinion,  left  behind  by  a  customer.  Victoria  surveyed  the 
room,  almost  absolutely  bare  save  in  the  essentials  of 
chairs  and  tables.  It  was  not  unsightly,  excepting  the 
fact  that  it  was  probably  swept  now  and  then,  but  never 
cleaned  out.  Upon  the  wall  opposite  was  stuck  a  penny 
souvenir,  which  proclaimed  the  fact  that  the  Emperor  of 
Patagonia  had  lunched  at  the  Guildhall.  By  its  side  hung 
a  large  looking-glass  co-operatively  purchased  by  the  staff. 
Another  wall  was  occupied  by  pegs  on  which  hung  sundry 
dust  coats  and  feather  boas,  mostly  smart.  Gertie,  in  the 
corner,  was  still  fumbling  in  the  place  known  as  "Heath's" 
because  it  represented  the  "Hatterie."  It  was  a  silent 
party  enough,  this;  even  the  twro  other  girls  on  duty 
downstairs  would  not  have  increased  the  animation  much. 
Victoria  sat  back  in  her  chair,  and,  glancing  at  the  little 
watch  she  carried  on  her  wrist  in  a  leather  strap,  saw  she 
still  had  ten  minutes  to  think. 

Victoria  watched  Gertie,  who  had  come  out  of  "Heath's" 
and  was  poising  her  hat  before  the  glass.  She  was  a  neat 
little  thing,  round  everywhere,  trim  in  the  figure,  standing 
well  on  her  toes;  her  brown  hair  and  eyes,  pursed  up  little 
mouth,  small,  sharp  nose,  all  spoke  of  briskness  and  self- 
confidence. 

"Quarter  to  four,  doin'  a  bunk,"  she  remarked  generally 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Mind  Butty  doesn't  catch  you,"  said  Victoria. 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,"  said  Gertie,  "we're  pals." 

Fat  Bella,  chewing  the  cud  at  the  table,  shot  a  malevo- 
lent glance  at  her.  Gertie  took  no  notice  of  her,  tied  on 
her  veil  with  a  snap,  and  collected  her  steel  purse,  parasol, 
and  long  white  cotton  gloves. 

"Bye,  everybody,"  she  said,  "be  good.  Bye,  Miss  Prod- 
gitt;  wish  yer  luck  with  yer  perliceman,  but  you  take  my 
tip,  all  what  glitters  isn't  coppers." 

Before  Miss  Prodgitt  could  find  a  retort  to  this  ruthless 
exposure  of  her  idyll,  Gertie  had  vanished  down  the 
siairs.  Lottie  dreamily  turned  to  the  last  page  of  London 
Opinion  and  vainly  attempted  to  sound  the  middle  of  her 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  93 

back;  she  was  clearly  disturbed  by  the  advertisement  of  a 
patent  medicine.  Victoria  watched  her  amusedly. 

They  were  not  bad  sorts,  any  of  them.  Lottie,  in  her 
sharp  way,  had  been  a  kindly  guide  in  the  early  days,, 
explained  the  meaning  of  "checks,"  shown  her  how  to 
distinguish  the  inflexion  on  the  word  "bill,"  that  tells 
whether  a  customer  wants  the  bill  of  fare  or  the  bill  of 
costs,  imparted,  too,  the  wonderful  mnemonics  which  en- 
able a  waitress  to  sort  four  simultaneous  orders.  Gertie, 
the  only  frankly  common  member  of  the  staff,  barked 
ever  but  bit  never.  As  for  Bella,  poor  soul,  she  represented 
neutrality.  The  thread  of  her  life  was  woven;  she  would 
marry  her  policeman  when  he  got  his  stripe,  and  bear  him 
dull  company  to  the  grave.  Gertie  would  no  doubt  look 
after  herself.  Not  being  likely  to  marry,  she  might  keep 
straight  and  end  as  a  manageress,  probably  save  nothing 
and  end  in  the  workhouse,  or  go  wrong  and  live  somehow, 
and  then  die  as  quickly  as  a  robin  passing  from  the  sun- 
shine to  the  darkness.  Lottie  was  a  greater  problem;  in 
her  intelligence  lay  danger;  she  had  imagination,  which  in 
girls  of  her  class  is  a  perilous  possession.  Her  enthusiasm 
might  take  her  anywhere,  but  very  much  more  likely  to 
misery  than  to  happiness.  However,  as  she  was  visibly 
weak-chested,  Victoria  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
the  air  of  the  underground  smoking-room  would  some  day 
sett1  e  her  troubles. 

Victoria  did  not  follow  up  her  own  line  of  life  because 
as  for  all  young  things,  there  was  no  end  for  her— nothing 
but  mist  ahead,  with  a  rosy  tinge  in  it.  Sufficient  was  it 
that  she  was  in  receipt  of  a  fairly  regular  income,  not 
exactly  overworked,  neither  happy  nor  miserable.  Apart 
from  the  two  hours  rush  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  there 
was  nothing  to  worry  her.  After  two  months  she  had 
worked  up  a  fair  connection;  she  could  not  rival  the  ex- 
perienced Lottie,  nor  even  Gertie  whose  forward  little 
ways  always  "caught  on,"  but  she  kept  up  an  average  of 
some  fourteen  shillings  a  week  in  tips.  Thus  she  scored 
over  Gladys  and  Cora,  whose  looks  and  manners  were  un- 
impressive, lymphatic  Bella  being,  of  course,  outclassed 
by  everybody.  Twenty-one  and  six  a  week  was  none  too 


94  A  BED  OF  ROSES. 

much  for  Victoria,  whose  ideas  of  clothes  were  fatally 
upper  middle  class;  good,  and  not  too  cheap.  Still,  she 
was  enough  of  her  class  to  live  within  her  income,  and 
even  add  a  shilling  now  and  then  to  her  little  hoard. 

A  door  opened  downstairs.  "Four  o'clock!"  Come 
d}wn!  Vic!  Bella!  Lottie!  Vat  are  you  doing?  gn?" 

Bella  jumped  up  in  terror,  her  fat  cheeks  quivering  like 
jefly.  "Coming,  Mr.  Stein,  coming,"  she  cried,  making 
for  the  stairs.  Victoria  followed  more  slowly.  Lottie, 
secure  in  her  privileges  as  head  waitress,  did  not  move 
until  she  heard  the  door  below  slam  behind  them. 

Victoria  lazily  made  for  her  tables.  They  were  unoccu- 
pied save  by  a  youth  of  the  junior  clerk  type. 

"Small  tea  toasted  scone,  Miss,"  said  the  monarch  with 
an  approving  look  at  Victoria's  eyes.  As  she  turned  to 
execute  his  order  he  threw  himself  back  in  the  bamboo 
armchair.  He  joined  his  ten  finger  tips,  and,  crossing  his 
legs,  negligently  displayed  a  purple  sock.  He  retained  this 
attitude  until  the  return  of  Victoria. 

"Kyou,"  she  said,  despositing  his  cup  before  him.  She 
had  unconsciously  acquired  this  incomprehensible  habit 
of  waitresses. 

The  young  man  availed  himself  of  the  wait  for  the  scone 
to  inform  Victoria  that  it  was  a  cold  day. 

"We  don't  notice  it  here,"  she  said  graciously  enough. 

"Hot  place,  eh,"  said  the  customer  with  a  wink. 

Victoria  smiled.  In  the  early  days  she  would  have  snub- 
bed him,  but  she  had  heard  the  remark  before  and  had  a 
stereotyped  answer  ready  which,  with  a  new  customer, 
invariably  earned  her  a  reputation  for  wit. 

"Oh,  the  hotter  the  fewer."  She  smiled  negligently, 
moving  away  towards  the  counter.  When  she  returned 
with  the  scone,  the  youth  held  out  his  hand  for  the  plate, 
and,  taking  it,  touched  the  side  of  hers  with  his  finger  tips. 
She  gave  him  a  faint  smile  and  sat  down  a  couple  of  yards 
away  on  a  chair  marked  "Attendant." 

The  youth  congratulated  her  upon  the  prettiness  of  the 
place.  Victoria  helped  him  through  his  scone  by  agreeing 
with  him  generally.  She  completed  her  conquest  by  light- 
ly touching  his  shoulder  as  she  gave  him  his  check. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  95 

"Penny?"  asked  Bella,  as  the  youth  gone,  Victoria  slip- 
ped her  fingers  under  the  cup. 

"Gent,"  replied  Victoria,  displaying  three  coppers. 

Bella  sighed.  "You've  got  all  the  luck,  don't  often  get 
a  twopenny;  never  had  a  gent  in  my  life." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  don't,"  said  Cora  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  "looking  as  pleasant  as  if  you  were  being 
photographed.  You  got  to  give  the  boys  some  sport." 

Bella  sighed.  "It's  all  very  well,  Cora,  I'm  an  ugly 
one,  that's  what  it  is." 

"Get  out;  I'm  not  a  blooming  daisy.  Try  washing  your 
hair  .  .  ." 

"It's  wrong,"  interposed  Bella  ponderously. 

"Oh,  shut  it,  Miss  Prodgitt,  I've  no  patience  with  you." 

Cora  walked  away  to  the  counter  where  Gladys  was 
brewing  tea.  There  was  a  singular  similarity  between 
these  two;  both  were  short  and  plump;  both  used  henna 
to  bring  their  hair  up  to  a  certain  hue  of  redness;  both 
had  complexions  obviously  too  dark  for  the  copper  of 
their  locks,  belied  as  it  was  already  by  their  brown  eyes. 
Indeed,  their  resemblance  frequently  created  trouble,  for 
each  maintained  that  the  other  ruined  her  trade  by  making 
her  face  cheap. 

"Can't  help  it  if  you've  got  a  cheap  face,"  was  the 
invariable  answer  from  either.  "You  go  home  and  come 
back  when  the  rhubarb's  out,"  usually  served  as  a  retort. 

The  July  afternoon  oozed  away.  It  was  cool ;  now  and 
then  an  effluvium  of  tea  came  to  Victoria,  mingled  with 
the  scent  of  toast.  Now  and  then,  too,  the  rumble  of  a 
dray  or  the  clatter  of  a  hansom  filtered  into  the  dullness. 
Victoria  almost  slept. 

The  inner  door  opened.  A  tall,  stout,  elderly  man  en- 
tered, throwing  a  savage  glance  round  the  shop.  There 
was  a  little  stir  among  the  girls.  Bella's  rigidity  increased 
tenfold.  Cora  and  Gladys  suddenly  stopped  talking. 
Alone  Victoria  and  Lottie  seemed  unconcerned  at  the  en- 
trance of  Butty,  for  "Butty"  it  was. 

"Butty,"  otherwise  Mr.  Burton,  the  chairman  of  "Rose- 
bud, Ltd.,"  continued  to  glare  theatrically.  He  wore  a 
blue  suit  of  a  crude  tint,  a  check  black  and  white  waist- 


96  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

coat,  a  soft  fronted  brown  shirt  and,  set  in  a  shilling  poplin 
tie,  a  large  black  pearl.  Under  a  grey  bowler  set  far 
back  on  his  head  his  forehead  sloped  away  to  his  wispy 
greying  hair.  His  nose  was  large  and  veined,  his  cheeks 
pendulous  and  touched  with  rosacia,  his  hanging  underlip 
revealed  yellow  teeth.  The  heavy  dullness  of  his  face  was 
somewhat  relieved  by  his  little  blue  eyes,  piercing  and 
sparkling  like  those  of  a  snake.  His  face  was  that  of  a 
man  who  is  looking  for  faults  to  correct. 

Mr.  Burton  strode  through  the  shop  to  the  counter 
where  Cora  and  Gladys  at  once  assumed  an  air  of  recti- 
tude while  he  examined  the  cash  register.  Then,  without 
a  word,  he  returned  towards  the  doorway,  sweeping  Lot- 
tie's tables  with  a  discontented  glance,  and  came  to  a 
stop  before  one  of  Bella's  tables. 

"What's  this?  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  this?" 
thundered  Butty,  pointing  to  a  soiled  plate  and  cup. 

"Oh,  sir,  I'm  sorry,  I  ..."  gasped  Bella,  "I  .  .  ." 

"Now  look  here,  my  girl,"  hissed  Butty,  savagely,  "don't 
you  give  me  any  of  your  lip.  If  I  ever  find  anything  on  a 
table  of  yours  thirty  seconds  after  a  customer's  gone,  it's 
the  sack.  Take  it  from  me." 

He  walked  to  the  steps  and  descended  into  the  smoking- 
room.  Cora  and  Gladys  went  into  fits  of  silent  mirth, 
pointing  at  poor  Bella.  Lottie,  unconcerned  as  ever,  vainly 
tried  to  extract  interest  from  the  shop  copy  of  "What's 
On." 

"Victoria,"  came  Butty's  voice  from  below.  "Where's 
Mr.  Stein?  Come  down." 

"He's  washing,  sir,"  said  Victoria,  bending  over  the 
banisters. 

"Oh,  washing,  is  he?  First  time  I've  caught  him  at  it," 
came  the  answer  with  vicious  jocularity.  "Here's  a  nice 
state  of  things;  come  down." 

Victoria  went  down  the  steps. 

"Now  then,  why  aren't  these  salt  cellars  put  away? 
It's  your  job  before  you  come  up." 

"If  you  please,  sir,  it's  settling  day,"  said  Victoria 
quietly,  "we  open  this  room  again  at  six." 

"Oh,  yes,  s'pose  you're  right.     I  don't  blame  you. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  97 

Never  have  to,"  said  Butty  grudgingly,  then  ingratiat- 
ingly. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Victoria. 

"No,  you're  not  like  the  others,"  said  Butty,  negligently 
coming  closer  to  her. 

Victoria  smiled  respectfully,  but  edged  a  little  away. 
Butty  eyed  her  narrowly,  his  lips  smiling  and  a  little 
moist.  Then  his  hand  suddenly  shot  out  and  seized  her 
by  the  arm,  high  up,  just  under  the  short  sleeve. 

"You're  a  nice  girl,"  he  said,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

Victoria  said  nothing,  but  tried  to  free  herself.  She 
tried  harder  as  she  felt  on  her  forearm  the  moist  warmth 
of  the  ball  of  Butty's  thumb  softly  caressing  it. 

"Let  me  go,  sir,"  she  whispered,  "they  can  see  you 
through  the  banisters." 

"Never  you  mind,  Vic,"  said  Butty,  drawing  her  to- 
wards him. 

Victoria  slipped  from  his  grasp,  ran  to  the  stairs,  but 
remembered  to  climb  them  in  a  natural  and  leisurely 
manner. 

"Cool,  very  cool,"  said  Butty,  approvingly,  "fine  girl, 
fine  girl."  He  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips,  which  had 
suddenly  gone  dry. 

When  Victoria  returned  to  her  seat  Lottie  had  not 
moved;  Bella  sat  deep  in  her  own  despair,  but,  behind  the 
counter,  Cora  and  Gladys  were  fixing  two  stern  pairs  of 
eyes  upon  the  favourite. 

CHAPTER  XV 

"YES,  sir,  yes  sir;  I've  got  your  order,"  cried  Victoria 
to  a  middle-aged  man,  whose  face  reddened  with  every 
minute  of  waiting.  "Steak,  sir?  Yes,  sir,  that'll  be  eight 
minutes.  And  sautees,  yes  sir.  Gladys,  send  Dicky  up  to 
four.  What  was  yours,  sir?  Wing  twopence  extra.  No 
bread?  Oh,  sorry,  sir,  thought  you  said  Worcester." 

Victoria  dashed  away  to  'the  counter.  This  was  the 
busy  hour.  In  her  brain  a  hurtle  of  foodstuffs  and  condi- 
ments automatically  sorted  itself  out. 

"Now  then,  hurry  up  with  that  chop,"  she  snapped, 


98  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

thrusting  her  head  almost  through  the  kitchen  window. 

"  'Oo  are  you?"  growled  the  cook  over  her  shoulder. 
"Empress  of  Germany?  I  don't  think." 

"Oh,  shut  it,  Maria,  hand  it  over;  now  then,  Cora, 
where  you  pushing  to?"  Victoria  edged  Cora  back  from 
the  window,  seized  the  chop  and  rushed  back  to  her 
tables. 

The  bustle  increased;  it  was  close  on  one  o'clock,  an 
hour  when  the  slaves  drop  their  oars,  and  for  a  while  leave 
the  thwarts  of  many  groans.  The  Rosebud  had  nearly 
filled  up.  Almost  every  table  was  occupied  by  young 
men,  most  of  them  reading  a  paper  propped  up  against  a 
cruet,  some  a  Temple  Classic,  its  pages  kept  open  by  the 
weight  of  the  plate  edge.  A  steady  hum  of  talk  came 
from  those  who  did  not  read,  and,  mingled  with  the  clat- 
ter of  knives  and  forks,  produced  that  atmosphere  of  mon- 
grel sound  that  floats  into  the  ears  like  a  restless  wave. 

Victoria  stepped  briskly  between  the  tables,  collecting 
orders,  deftly  making  out  bill  after  bill,  smoothing  tem- 
pers ruffled  here  and  there  by  a  wrongful  attribution  of 
food. 

"Yes,  sir,  cutlets.    No  veg?    Cauli?    Yes,  sir." 

She  almost  ran  up  and  down  as  half-past  one  struck 
and  the  young  men  asked  for  coffees,  small  coffees,  small 
blacks,  china  teas.  From  time  to  time  she  could  breathe 
and  linger  for  some  seconds  by  a  youth  who  audaciously 
played  with  the  pencil  and  foil  suspended  from  her  waist. 
Or  she  exchanged  a  pleasantry. 

"Now  then,  Nevy,  none  of  your  larks."  Victoria  turned 
round  sharply  and  caught  a  hand  engaged  in  forcing  a 
piece  of  sugar  into  her  belt. 

Nevy,  otherwise  Neville  Brown,  laughed  and  held  her 
hand  the  space  of  a  second.  "I  love  my  love  with  a 
V  ..."  he  began,  looking  up  at  her,  his  blue  eyes  shin- 
ing. 

"Chuck  it  or  I'll  tell  your  mother,"  said  Victoria,  smil- 
ing, too.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and  turned  away. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Vic,  don't  go,  wait  a  bit,"  cried  Neville, 
"I  want,  now  what  did  I  want?" 

"Sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Victoria,  "you  never  said 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  99 

what  you  wanted.  Want  me  to  make  up  your  mind  for 
you?" 

"Do,  Vic,  let  our  minds  be  one,"  said  Neville. 

Victoria  looked  at  him  approvingly.  Neville  Brown 
deserved  the  nickname  of  "Beauty,"  which  had  clung  to 
him  since  he  left  school.  Brown  wavy  hair,  features  so 
clean  cut  as  to  appear  almost  effeminate,  a  broad,  pointed 
jaw,  all  combined  to  make  him  the  schoolgirl's  dream.  Set 
off  by  his  fair  and  slightly  sunburnt  face,  his  blue  eyes 
sparkled  with  mischief. 

"Well,  then,  special  and  cream.  Sixpence  and  serve 
you  right." 

She  laughed  and  stepped  briskly  away  to  the  counter. 

"You're  in  luck,  Beauty,"  said  his  neighbour  with  a 
sardonic  air. 

"Oh,  it's  no  go,  James,"  replied  Brown,  "straight  as 
they  make  them." 

"Don't  say  she's  not.  But  if  I  weren't  a  married  man, 
I'd  go  for  her  baldheaded." 

"Guess  you  would,  Jimmy,"  said  Beauty,  laughing, 
"but  you'd  be  wasting  your  time.  You  wouldn't  get  any- 
thing out  of  her." 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure,"  said  Jimmy  meaningly.  He 
passed  his  hand  reflectively  over  his  shaven  lips. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Brown,  "p'r'aps  I'm  not  an  Apollo 
like  you,  Jimmy." 

Jimmy  smiled  complacently.  He  was  a  tall  slim  youth, 
well  groomed  about  the  head,  doggy  about  the  collar  and 
tie,  neatly  dressed  in  Scotch  tweed.  His  steady  grey  eyes 
and  firm  mouth,  a  little  set  and  rigid,  the  impeccability  of 
all  about  him,  had  stamped  business  upon  his  face  as 
upon  his  clothes. 

"Oh,  I  can't  queer  your  pitch,  Beauty,"  he  said  a  little 
grimly.  "I  know  you,  you  low  dog." 

Beauty  laughed  at  the  epithet.  "You've  got  no  poetry 
about  you,  you  North  Country  chaps,  when  a  girl's  as 
lovely  as  Victoria — 

"As  lovely  as  Victoria,"  he  repeated  a  little  louder,  as 
Victoria  laid  the  cup  of  coffee  before  him. 


ioo  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Victoria  coolly,  "you 
don't  come  it  over  me  like  that,  Nevy." 

"Cruel,  cruel  girl,"  sighed  Neville.  "Ah,  if  you  only 
knew  what  I  feel — 

Victoria  put  her  hand  on  the  tablecloth  and,  for  a 
moment,  looked  down  into  Neville's  blue  eyes. 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  out,"  she  pronounced,  "you 
aren't  safe." 

Jimmy  got  up  as  if  he  had  been  sitting  on  a  suddenly 
released  spring. 

"Spoon  away,  both  of  you,"  he  said  smoothly,  "I'm  go- 
ing over  to  Parsons'  to  buy  a  racquet.  Coming,  Beauty? 
No,  thought  as  much.  Ta-ta,  Vic.  Excuse  me.  Steak 
and  kidney  pie  is  tenpence,  not  a  shilling.  Cheer  oh! 
Beauty." 

"He's  a  rum  one,"  said  Victoria,  reflectively,  as  Jimmy 
passed  the  cash  desk. 

"Jimmy?  Oh,  he's  all  right,"  said  Neville,  "but  look 
here,  Vic,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Let's  go  on  the  bust 
to-night.  Dinner  at  the  New  Gaiety  and  the  theatre. 
What  d'you  think?" 

Victoria  looked  at  him  for  a  second. 

"You  are  a  cure,  Nevy,"  she  said. 

"Then  that's  a  bargain?"  said  Brown,  eagerly  snapping 
up  her  non-refusal.  "Meet  me  at  Strand  Tube  Station 
half-past  seven.  You're  off  to-night,  I  know." 

"Oh,  you  know,  do  you?"  said  Victoria,  smiling.  "Been 
pumping  Bella,  I  suppose,  like  the  rest.  She's  a  green  one, 
that  girl." 

Neville  looked  up  at  her  appealingly.  "Never  mind 
how  I  know,"  he  said,  "say  you'll  come,  we'll  have  a  rip- 
ping time." 

"Well,  p'r'aps  I  will  and  p'r'aps  I  won't,"  said  Victoria. 
"Your  bill,  sir?  Yessir." 

Victoria  went  to  the  next  table.  While  she  wrote  she 
exchanged  chaff  with  the  customers.  One  had  not  raised 
his  eyes  from  his  book ;  one  stood  waiting  for  his  bill ;  the 
other  two,  creatures  about  to  be  men,  raised  languid  eyes 
from  their  coffee  cups.  One  negligently  puffed  a  jet  of 
tobacco  smoke  upwards  towards  Victoria. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  101 

"Rotten,"  she  said  briefly,  "I  see  you  didn't  buy  those 
up  West." 

"That's  what  you  think,  Vic,"  said  the  youth;  "fact  is, 
I  got  them  in  the  Burlington.  Have  one?" 

"No  thanks.    Don't  want  to  be  run  in." 

"Have  a  match  then."  The  young  man  held  up  a  two- 
inch  vesta.  "What  price  that,  eh?  Pinched  'em  from 
the  Troc'  last  night." 

"You  are  a  toff,  Bertie,"  said  Victoria  with  unction. 
"I'll  have  it  as  a  keepsake."  She  took  it  and  stuck  it  in 
her  belt. 

Bertie  leaned  over  to  his  neighbour.  "It's  a  mash,"  he 
said  confidently. 

"Take  her  to  Kew,"  said  his  friend,  "next  stop 
Brighton." 

"Can't  run  to  it,  old  cock,"  said  the  youth.  "However, 
we  shall  see." 

"Vic,  Vic,"  whispered  Neville.  But  Victoria  had  passed 
him  quickly  and  was  answering  Mr.  Stein. 

"Vat  you  mean  by  it,"  he  growled,  "making  de  gentle- 
man vait  for  his  ticket,  gn?" 

"Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Stein,  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 
The  gentleman  was  making  me  wait  while  he  talked  to  his 
friend." 

Victoria  could  now  lie  coolly  and  well.  Stein  looked 
at  her  savagely  and  slowly  walked  away  along  the  gang- 
way between  the  tables,  glowering  from  right  to  left,  look- 
ing managerially  for  possible  complaints. 

Victoria  turned  back  from  the  counter.  There,  behind 
the  coffee  um  where  Cora  presided,  stood  Burton,  in  his 
blue  suit,  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  appearing  on  his  fore- 
head. His  little  blue  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  her  like 
drills  seeking  in  her  being  the  line  of  least  resistance  where 
he  could  deliver  his  attack.  She  almost  fled,  as  if  she  had 
seen  a  snake,  every  facet  of  her  memory  causing  the  touch 
of  his  hot  warm  hand  to  materialise. 

"Vic,"  said  Neville's  voice  softly,  'as  she  passed,  "is  it 
yes?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  handsome  face. 

"Yes,  Beauty  Boy,"  she  whispered,  and  walked  away. 


102  A  BED  OF  ROSES 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"SILLY  ass,"  remarked  Victoria  angrily.  She  threw 
Edward's  letter  on  the  table.  Unconsciously  she  spoke 
the  "Rosebud"  language,  for  contact  had  had  its  effect 
upon  her;  she  no  longer  awoke  with  a  start  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  spealdng  an  alien  tongue,  a  tongue  she  would 
once  have  despised. 

Edward  had  expressed  his  interest  in  her  welfare  in  a 
letter  of  four  pages  covered  with  his  thin  writing,  every 
letter  of  which  was  legible  and  sloped  at  the  proper  angle. 
He  "considered  it  exceedingly  undesirable  for  her  to  adopt 
a  profession  such  as  that  of  waitress."  It  was  comforting 
to  know  that  "he  was  relieved  to  see  that  she  had 
the  common  decency  to  change  her  name,  and  he 
trusted.  .  .  ."  Here  Victoria  had  stopped. 

"I  can't  bear  it,"  she  said.  "I  can't,  can't,  can't.  Two- 
penny little  schoolmaster  lecturing  me,  me  who've  got 
to  earn  every  penny  I  get  by  righting  for  it  in  the  dirt, 
so  to  say."  Every  one  of  Edward's  features  came  up 
before  her  eyes,  his  straggling  fair  hair,  his  bloodless  face, 
his  fumbling,  ineffective  hands.  This  pedagogue  who  had 
stepped  from  scholardom  to  teacherdom  dared  to  blame 
or  eulogise  the  steps  she  took  to  earn  her  living,  to  be 
free  to  live  or  die  as  she  chose.  It  was  preposterous. 
What  did  he  know  of  life? 

Victoria  seized  a  pen  and  feverishly  scribbled  on  a 
crumpled  sheet  of  paper. 

"My  dear  Edward, — What  I  do's  my  business.  I've  got 
to  live  and  I  can't  choose.  And  you  can  be  sure  that  so 
long  as  I  can  keep  myself  I  sha'n't  come  to  you  for  help 
or  advice.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  freedom  is, 
never  having  had  any.  But  I  do  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it 
even  if  it  costs  me  the  approval  of  you  people  who  sit  at 
home  comfortably  and  judge  people  like  me  who  want  to 
be  strong  and  free.  But  what's  the  good  of  talking  about 
freedom  to  you. — Your  affectionate  sister, 

"VICTORIA." 


A  BED, OF  ROSES  103 

She  addressed  the  envelope  and  ran  out  hatless  to  post 
it  at  the  pillar  box  in  Edgware  Road.  As  she  crossed  the 
road  homewards  a  horse  bus  rumbled  by.  It  carried  an 
enormous  advertisement  of  the  new  musical  comedy,  The 
Teapot  Girl.  "A  fine  comedy,  indeed,"  she  thought,  sud- 
denly a  little  weary. 

As  she  entered  her  room,  where  a  small  oil  lamp  diffused 
a  sphere  of  graduated  light,  she  was  seized  as  by  the 
throat  by  the  oppression  of  the  silent  summer  night.  The 
wind  had  fallen;  not  even  a  whirl  of  dust  stirred  in  the 
air.  Alone  and  far  away  a  piano  organ  in  a  square  droned 
and  clanked  Italian  melody.  She  thought  of  Edward  and 
of  her  letter.  Perhaps  she  had  been  too  sharp.  Once 
upon  a  time  she  would  not  have  written  like  that:  she  was 
getting  common. 

Victoria  sat  down  on  a  little  chair,  her  hands  clasped 
together  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  looking  out  at  the  blank  wall 
opposite.  This,  nine  o'clock,  was  the  fatal  hour  when  the 
ghosts  of  her  dead  past  paced  like  caged  beasts  up  and 
down  in  her  small  room,  and  the  wraith  of  the  day's  work 
rattled  its  chains.  There  had  been  earlier  times  when, 
in  the  first  flush  of  independence,  she  had  sat  down  to 
gloat  over  what  was  almost  a  success,  her  liberty,  her  liv- 
ing earned  by  her  own  efforts.  The  rosiness  of  freedom 
then  wrapped  around  the  dinge  with  wreaths  of  fancy, 
wreaths  that  curled  incessantly  into  harmonious  shapes. 
But  Victoria  had  soon  plumbed  the  depths  of  speculation 
and  found  that  the  fire  of  imagination  needs  shadowy  fuel 
for  its  shadowy  combustion.  Day  by  day  her  brain  had 
become  less  lissome.  Then,  instead  of  thinking  for  the 
joy  of  thought,  she  had  read  some  fourpenny-halfpenny 
novel,  a  paper  even,  picked  up  in  the  Tube.  Her  mind  was 
waking  up,  visualising,  realising,  and  in  its  troublous  surg- 
ings  made  for  something  to  cling  to  to  steady  itself.  But 
months  rolled  on  and  on,  inharmonious  in  their  sameness, 
unrelieved  by  anything  from  the  monotony  of  work  and 
sleep.  Certain  facts  meant  certain  things  and  recurred 
eternally  with  their  unchanging  meaning;  the  knock  that 
awoke  her,  a  knock  so  individual  and  habitual  that  her 
sleepy  brain  was  conscious  on  Sundays  that  she  need  not 


104  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

respond;  the  smell  of  food  which  began  to  assail  her 
faintly  as  she  entered  the  "Rosebud,"  then  grew  to  pung- 
ency and  reek  at  midday,  blended  with  tobacco,  then 
slowly  ebbed  almost  into  nothingness:  the  dying  day  that 
was  grateful  to  her  eyes  when  she  left  to  go  home,  when 
things  looked  kindly  round  her. 

When  Victoria  realised  all  of  a  sudden  her  loneliness 
in  her  island  in  Star  Street,  something  like  the  fear  of 
the  hunted  had  driven  her  out  into  the  streets.  She  was 
afraid  to  be  alone,  for  not  even  books  could  save  her  from 
her  thoughts,  those  hounds  in  full  cry.  In  such  moods  she 
had  walked  the  streets  quickly,  looking  at  nothing,  main- 
taining her  pace  over  hills.  Now  and  then  she  had  sud- 
denly landed  on  a  slum,  caught  sight  of,  all  beery  and 
bloody,  through  the  chink  of  a  black  lane.  But  she 
shunned  the  flares,  the  wet  pavement,  the  orange  peel  that 
squelched  beneath  her  boots,  afraid  of  the  sight  of  too 
vigorous  life.  Unconsciously  she  had  sought  the  drug  of 
weariness,  and  the  cunning  bred  of  her  dipsomania  told 
her  that  the  living  were  poor  companions  for  her  soul. 
And,  when  at  times  a  man  had  followed  her,  his  eye  ar- 
rested by  the  lines  of  her  face  lit  up  by  a  gas  lamp,  he 
had  soon  tired  of  her  quick  walk  and  turned  away  towards 
weaker  vessels. 

But  even  weariness,  when  abused,  loses  its  power  as  a 
sedative.  The  body,  at  once  hardened  and  satiated,  de- 
mands more  every  day  as  it  craves  for  increasing  doses 
of  morphia,  for  more  food,  more  drink,  more  kisses,  more, 
ever  more.  Thus  Victoria  had  reached  her  last  stage  when, 
sitting  alone  in  her  room,  she  once  more  faced  the  empti- 
ness where  the  ghosts  of  her  dead  past  paced  like  caged 
beasts  and  the  wraith  of  the  day's  work  rattled  its  chains. 

From  this,  now  a  state  of  mental  instead  of  physical 
exhaustion,  she  was  seldom  roused;  and  it  needed  an 
Edward  come  to  judgment  to  stir  her  sleepy  brain  into 
quick  passion.  Again  and  again  the  events  of  the  day 
would  chase  round  and  round  maddeningly  with  every  one 
of  their  little  details  sharp  as  crystals.  Victoria  could  al- 
most mechanically  repeat  some  conversations,  all  trifling, 
similar,  confined  to  half  a  dozen  topics;  she  could  feel,  too, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  105 

but  casually  as  an  odalisque,  the  hot  wave  of  desire  which 
surrounded  her  all  day,  evidenced  by  eyes  that  glittered, 
fastened  or  her  hands  as  she  served,  on  her  face,  the  curve 
of  her  neck,  her  breast,  her  hips;  eyes  that  devoured  and 
divested  her  of  her  meretricious  livery.  And,  worse,  per- 
haps, than  that  big  primitive  surge  which  left  her  cold 
but  unangered,  the  futility  of  others  who  bandied  with  her 
the  daily  threadbare  joke,  who  wearied  her  mind  with 
questions  as  to  food,  compelled  her  to  sympathise  with  the 
vagaries  of  the  weather  or  were  arch,  flirtatious  and 
dragged  out  of  her  tired  mind  the  necessary  response. 
Even  Butty  and  the  moist  warmth  of  him,  even  Stein  with 
his  flaccid  surly  face,  were  better  in  their  grossness  than 
these  vapid  youths,  thoughtless,  incapable  of  thought,  in- 
capable of  imagining  thought,  who  set  her  down  as  an 
inferior,  as  a  toy  for  games  that  were  not  even  those  of 
men. 

"Beauty"  had  been  a  disappointment.  She  had  met  him 
two  or  three  times  since  their  first  evening  out.  That 
night  Neville,  who  was  a  young  man  of  the  world,  had 
pressed  his  suit  so  delicately,  preserving  in  so  oat-like  a 
manner  his  lines  of  retreat,  that  she  had  not  been  able  to 
snub  him  when  inclined  to.  He  had  a  small  private  in- 
come and  knew  how  to  make  the  best  of  his  good  looks 
by  means  of  gentle  manners  and  smart  clothes.  In  the 
insurance  office  where  he  was  one  of  those  clerks  who  have 
lately  evolved  from  the  junior  stage,  he  was  nothing  in 
particular  and  earned  ten  pounds  a  month.  He  had  fur- 
nished two  rooms  on  the  Chelsea  edge  of  Kensington,  be- 
longed to  an  inexpensive  club  in  St.  James's,  had  been 
twice  to  Brussels  and  once  to  Paris;  he  smoked  Turkish 
cigarettes,  deeming  Virginia  common;  he  subscribed  to  a 
library  in  connection  with  Mudie's,  and  knew  enough  of 
the  middle  classes  to  exaggerate  his  impression  of  them 
into  the  smart  set.  Perhaps  he  tried  a  little  too  much  to 
be  a  gentleman. 

Neville  Brown  was  strongly  attracted  to  Victoria.  He 
had  vainly  tried  to  draw  her  out,  and  scented  the  lie  in 
her  carefully  concocted  story.  He  knew  enough  to  feel 
that  she  was  at  heart  one  of  those  women  he  met  "in  so- 


106  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

ciety,"  perhaps  a  little  better.  Thus  she  puzzled  "him  ex- 
tremely, for  she  was  not  even  facile;  he  could  hold  her 
hand;  she  had  not  refused  him  kisses,  but  he  was  afraid 
to  secure  his  grip  on  her  as  a  man  carrying  a  butterfly 
stirs  not  a  finger  for  fear  it  should  escape. 

Victoria  turned  all  this  over  lazily.  Her  instinct  told 
her  what  manner  of  man  was  Neville,  for  he  hardly  con- 
cealed his  desires.  Indeed,  their  relations  had  something 
of  the  charm  of  a  masqued  ball.  She  saw  well  enough 
that  Neville  was  not  likely  to  remain  content  with  kisses, 
and  viewed  the  inevitable  battle  with  mixed  feelings.  She 
liked  him;  indeed,  in  certain  moods  and  when  his  blue 
eyes  were  at  their  bluest,  he  attracted  her  magnetically. 
The  reminiscent  scent  of  Turkish  tobacco  on  her  lips  al- 
ways drew  her  back  towards  him ;  and  yet  she  was  of  her 
class,  shy  of  love,  of  all  that  is  illicit  because  unacknowl- 
edged. She  knew  very  well  that  Neville  would  hardly  ask 
her  to  marry  him  and  that  she  would  refuse  if  he  did;  she 
knew  less  well  what  she  would  do  if  he  asked  her  to  love 
him.  When  she  analysed  their  relations  she  always  found 
that  all  lay  on  the  lap  of  the  gods. 

In  the  loneliness  of  night  her  thoughts  would  fasten  on 
him  more  intently.  He  was  youth  and  warmth  and  friend- 
liness, words  for  the  silent,  a  hand  to  touch;  better  still, 
he  was  a  figment  of  Love  itself,  with  all  its  tenderness  and 
crudity,  its  heat,  all  the  quivers  of  its  body;  he  was  soft 
scented  as  the  mysterious  giver  of  passionate  gifts.  So, 
when  Victoria  lay  down  to  try  and  sleep  she  rocked  in  the 
trough  of  the  waves  of  doubt.  She  could  not  tell  into  what 
hands  she  would  give,  if  she  gave,  her  freedom,  her  inde- 
pendence of  thought  and  deed,  all  that  security  which  is 
dear  to  the  sheltered  class  from  which  she  came.  So,  far 
into  the  night  she  would  struggle  for  sight,  tossing  from 
right  to  left  and  left  to  right,  thrusting  away  and  then 
recalling  the  brown  face,  the  blue  eyes  and  their  promise. 

CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  days  rolled  on,  and  on  every  one,  as  their  scroll 
revealed  itself,  Victoria  inscribed  doings  which  never 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  107 

1  di-ied.  The  routine  grew  heavier  as  she  found  that  the 
events  of  a  Monday  were  so  similar  to  those  of  another 
Monday  that  after  a  month  she  could  not  locate  happen- 
ings. She  no  longer  read  newspapers.  There  was  nothing 
in  them  for  her;  not  even  the  mock  tragedy  of  the  death 
of  an  heir  presumptive  or  the  truer  grimness  of  a  ship- 
wreck could  rouse  in  her  an  emotion.  She  did  not  care 
for  adventure:  not  because  she  thought  that  adventure 
was  beneath  her  notice,  but  because  it  could  not  affect  her. 
A  revolution  could  have  happened,  but  she  would  have 
served  boiled  cod  and  coffees  to  the  groundlings,  wings  of 
chicken  to  the  luxurious,  without  a  thought  for  the  up- 
heaval, provided  it  did  not  flutter  the  pink  curtains  beyond 
which  hummed  the  world. 

At  times,  for  the  holiday  season  was  not  over  and  work 
was  rather  slack,  Victoria  had  time  to  sit  on  her  "attend- 
ant" chair  and  to  think  awhile.  Reading  nothing  and 
seeing  no  one  save  Beauty  and  Mrs.  Smith,  she  was  think- 
ing once  more  and  thinking  dangerously  much.  Often  she 
would  watch  Lottie,  negligently  serving,  returning  the  ball 
of  futility  with  a  carelessness  that  was  almost  grace,  or 
Cora  talking  smart  slang  in  young  lady-like  tones. 

"To  what  end?"  thought  Victoria.  "What  are  we 
doing  here,  wasting  our  lives,  I  suppose,  to  feed  these  boys. 
For  what's  the  good  of  feeding  them  so  that  they  may 
scrawl  figures  in  books  and  catch  trains  and  perhaps  one 
day,  unless  they've  got  too  old,  marry  some  dull  girl  and 
have  more  children  than  they  can  keep?  We  girls,  we're 
wasted,  too."  So  strongly  did  she  feel  this  that,  one  day, 
she  prospected  the  unexplored  ground  of  Cora's  mind. 

"What  are  you  worrying  about?"  remarked  Cora,  after 
Victoria  had  tried  to  inflame  her  with  noble  discontent. 
"I  don't  say  it's  all  honey,  this  job  of  ours,  but  you  can 
have  a  good  time  pretty  well  every  night,  can't  you,  let 
alone  Sundays?" 

"But  I  don't  want  a  good  time,"  said  Victoria,  suddenly 
inspired.  "I  want  to  feel  I'm  alive,  do  something." 

"Do  what?"  said  Cora. 

"Live,  see  things,  travel." 

"Oh,  we  don't  get  a  chance,  of  course,"  said  Cora.    "I'D 


io8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

tell  you  how  it  is,  Vic,  you  want  too  much.  If  you  want 
anything  in  life  you've  got  to  want  nothing,  then  what- 
ever you  get  good  seems  jolly  good." 

"You're  a  pessimist,  Cora,"  said  Victoria,  smiling. 

"Meaning  I  see  the  sad  side?  Don't  you  believe  it. 
Every  cloud  has  a  silver  lining,  you  know." 

"And  every  silver  lining  has  a  cloud,"  said  Victoria, 
sadly. 

"Now,  Vic,"  answered  Cora  crossly,  "don't  you  go  on 
like  that.  You'll  only  mope  and  mope.  And  what's  the 
good  of  that,  I'd  like  to  know." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Victoria,  "I  like  thinking  of 
things.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  could  make  an  end  of  it. 
Don't.you?" 

"Lord,  no,"  said  Cora,  "I  make  the  best  of  it.  You 
take  my  tip  and  don't  think  too  much." 

Victoria  bent  down  in  her  chair,  her  chin  upon  her  open 
palm.  Cora  slapped  her  on  the  back. 

"Cheer  up,"  she  said,  "we'll  soon  be  dead." 

Victoria  had  also  attempted  Gladys,  but  had  discov- 
ered without  surprise  that  her  association  with  Cora  had 
equalised  their  minds  as  well  as  the  copper  of  their  hair. 
Lottie  never  said  much  when  attacked  on  a  general  sub- 
ject, while  Bella  never  said  anything  at  all.  Since  the 
day  when  Victoria  had  attempted  to  draw  her  out  on  the 
fateful  question,  "What's  the  good  of  anything?"  Bella 
Prodgitt  had  looked  upon  Victoria  as  a  dangerous  revolu- 
tionary. At  times  she  would  follow  the  firebrand  round 
the  shop  with  frightened  and  admiring  eyes.  For  her 
Victoria  was  something  like  the  brilliant  relation  of  whom 
the  family  is  proud  without  daring  to  acknowledge  him. 

It  fell  to  Gertie's  lot  to  enlighten  Victoria  further  on 
the  current  outlook  of  life.  It  came  about  in  this  way. 
One  Saturday  afternoon  Victoria  and  Bella  were  alone  on 
duty  upstairs,  for  the  serving  of  lunch  is  then  at  a  low 
ebb;  the  city  makes  a  desperate  effort  to  reach  the  edge 
of  the  world  to  lunch  peacefully  and  cheaply  in  its  homes 
and  lodgings.  Lottie  and  Gertie  were  taking  the  smoking- 
room  below. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock.    At  one  of  the  larger  tables 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  109 

sat  two  men,  both  almost  through  with  their  lunch.  The 
elder  of  the  two,  a  stout,  cheery-looking  man,  pushed  away 
his  cup,  slipped  two  pennies  under  the  saucer  and,  taking 
up  his  bill,  which  Victoria  had  made  out  when  she  gave 
him  his  coffee,  went  up  to  the  cash  desk.  The  other  man, 
a  pale-faced  youth  in  a  blue  suit,  sat  before  his  half- 
emptied  cup.  His  hand  passed  nervously  round  his  chin 
as  he  surveyed  the  room;  his  was  rather  the  face  of  a 
ferret,  with  a  long  upper  lip,  watery  blue  eyes,  and  a  weak 
chin.  His  forehead  sloped  a  little  and  was  decorated  with 
many  pimples. 

Victoria  passed  him  quickly,  caught  up  the  stout  man, 
entered  the  cash  desk  and  took  his  bill.  He  turned  in 
the  doorway. 

"Well,  Vic,"  he  said,  "when  are  we  going  to  be  mar- 
ried?" 

"Twenty-ninth  of  February,  if  it's  not  a  leap  year,"  she 
laughed. 

"Too  bad,  too  bad,"  said  the  stout  man,  looking  back 
from  the  open  door  out  of  which  he  had  already  passed, 
"you're  the  third  girl  who's  said  that  to  me  in  a  fort- 
night." 

"Serve  you  right,"  said  Victoria,  looking  into  the  mirror 
opposite,  "you're  as  bad  as  Henry  the  .  .  ." 

The  door  closed.  Victoria  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 
Her  eyes  were  glued  to  the  mirror.  In  it  she  could  only 
see  a  young  man  with  a  thin  face,  decorated  with  many 
pimples,  hurriedly  gulping  down  the  remains  of  his  cup 
of  coffee.  But  a  second  before  then  she  had  seen  some- 
thing which  made  her  fetch  a  quick  breath.  The  young 
man  had  looked  round,  marked  that  her  head  was  turned 
away;  he  had  thrown  a  quick  glance  to  the  right  and  the 
left,  to  the  counter  which  Bella  had  left  for  a  moment  to 
go  into  the  kitchen ;  then  his  hand  had  shot  out  and,  with 
a  quick  movement,  he  had  seized  the  stout  man's  pennies 
and  slipped  them  under  his  own  saucer. 

The  young  man  got  up.  Victoria  came  up  to  him  and 
made  out  his  bill.  He  took  it  without  a  word  and  paid  it 
at  the  desk,  Victoria  taking  his  money. 


no  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Well,  he  didn't  steal  it,  did  he?"  said  Gertie,  when 
Victoria  told  her  of  the  incident. 

"No,  not  exactly.  Unless  he  stole  it  from  the  first 
man." 

"  'Ow  could  he  steal  it  if  he  didn't  take  it?"  snapped 
Gertie. 

"Well,  he  made  believe  to  tip  me  When  he  didn't,  and 
he  made  believe  that  the  first  man  was  mean  when  it  was 
he  who  was,"  said  Victoria.  "So  he  stole  it  from  the  first 
man  to  give  it  to  me." 

"Lord,  I  don't  see  what  yer  after,"  said  Gertie.  "You 
ain't  lost  nothing.  And  the  first  fellow  he  ain't  lost 
nothing  either.  He'd  left  his  money." 

Victoria  struggled  for  a  few  sentences.  The  little  Cock- 
ney brain  could  not  take  in  her  view.  Gertie  could  only 
see  that  Victoria  had  had  twopence  from  somebody  instead 
of  from  somebody  else,  so  what  was  her  trouble? 

"Tell  yer  wot,"  said  Gertie,  summing  up  the  case, 
"seems  ter  me  the  fellow  knew  wot  he  was  after.  Dodgy 
sort  of  thing  to  do.  Oughter  'ave  thought  of  the  looking- 
glass  though." 

Victoria  turned  away  from  Gertie's  crafty  little  smile. 
There  was  something  in  the  girl  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand; nor  could  Gertie  understand  her  scruple.  Gertie 
helped  her  a  little  though  to  solve  the  problem  of  waste; 
this  girl  could  hardly  be  wasted,  thought  Victoria,  for  of 
what  use  could  she  be?  She  had  neither  the  fine  physique 
that  enables  a  woman  to  bear  big  stupid  sons,  nor  the  in- 
telligence which  breeds  a  cleverer  generation;  she  was 
sunk  in  the  worship  of  easy  pleasure,  and  ever  bade  the 
fleeting  joy  to  tarry  yet  awhile. 

"She  isn't  alive  at  all,"  said  Victoria  to  Lottie.  "She 
merely  grows  older." 

"Well,  so  do  we,"  replied  Lottie  in  matter  of  fact  tones. 

Victoria  was  compelled  to  admit  the  truth  of  this,  but 
she  did  not  see  her  point  clearly  enough  to  state  it.  Lot- 
tie, besides,  did  nothing  to  draw  her  out.  In  some  ways 
she  was  Victoria's  oasis  in  the  desert,  for  she  was  simple 
and  gentle,  but  her  status  lymphaticus  was  permanent 
She  did  not  even  dream. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  in 

Victoria's  psychological  enquiries  did  not  tend  to  make 
her  popular.  The  verdict  of  'the  "Rosebud"  was  that  she 
was  a  "rum  one,"  perhaps  a  "deep  one."  The  staff  were 
confirmed  in  their  suspicions  that  she  was  a  "deep  one" 
by  the  obvious  attentions  that  Mr.  Burton  paid  her.  They 
were  not  prudish,  except  Bella,  who  objected  to  "goings 
on";  to  be  distinguished  by  Butty  was  rather  disgusting, 
but  it  was  flattering,  too. 

"He  could  have  anybody  he  liked,  the  dirty  old  tyke," 
remarked  Cora.  "Of  course  I'm  not  taking  any,"  she 
added  in  response  to  a  black  look  from  Bella  Prodgitt. 

Victoria  was  not  "taking  any"  either,  but  she  every  day 
found  greater  difficulty  in  repelling  him.  Burton  would 
stand  behind  the  counter  near  the  kitchen  door  during 
the  lunch  hour,  and  whenever  Victoria  had  to  come  up  to 
it,  he  would  draw  closer,  so  close  that  she  could  see  over 
the  whites  of  his  little  eyes  a  fine  web  of  blood  vessels. 
Every  time  she  came  and  went  her  skirts  brushed  against 
his  legs;  on  her  neck  sometimes  she  felt  the  rush  of  his 
bitter  scented  breath. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  change  room,  as  she  was  dressing 
alone  to  leave  at  four,  the  door  opened.  She  had  taken 
off  her  blouse  and  turned  with  a  little  cry.  Burton  had 
come  in  suddenly.  He  walked  straight  up  to  her,  his  eyes 
not  fixed  on  hers  but  on  her  bare  arms.  A  faintness  came 
over  her.  She  hardly  had  the  strength  to  repel  him,  as 
without  a  word  he  threw  one  arm  round  her  waist,  seizing 
her  above  the  elbow  with  his  other  hand.  As  he  tried  to 
draw  her  towards  him  she  saw  a  few  inches  from  her  face, 
just  the  man's  mouth,  red  and  wet,  like  the  sucker  of  a 
leech,  the  lips  parted  over  the  yellow  teeth. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  hissed,  throwing  her  head  back. 

Burton  ground  her  against  him,  craning  his  neck  to 
touch  her  lips  with  his. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  he  whispered,  "I  love  you.  You  be 
my  little  girl." 

"Let  me  go."    Victoria  shook  him  savagely. 

"None  of  that."  Burton's  eyes  were  glittering.  The 
corners  had  pulled  upwards  with  rage. 

"Let  me  go,  I  say." 


ii2  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Burton  did  not  answer.  For  a  minute  they  wrestled 
Victoria  thrust  him  back  against  the  wall.  She  almos 
turned  sick  as  his  hand,  slipping  round  her,  flattened  itsel 
on  her  bare  shoulder.  In  that  moment  of  weakness  Burtoi 
won,  and,  bending  her  over,  kissed  her  on  the  mouth 
She  struggled,  but  Burton  had  gripped  her  behind  th< 
neck.  Three  times  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  A  convul 
sion  of  disgust  and  she  lay  motionless  in  his  embrace 
There  was  a  step  on  the  stairs.  A  few  seconds  later  Bur 
ton  had  slipped  out  by  the  side  door. 

"What's  up?"  said  Gladys  suspiciously. 

Victoria  had  sunk  upon  a  chair,  breathless,  dishevelled 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Nothing  ...  I  ...  I  feel  sick,"  she  faltered.  Ther 
she  savagely  wiped  her  mouth  with  her  feather  boa. 

Victoria  was  getting  a  grip  of  things.  The  brute,  the 
currish  brute.  The  words  rang  in  her  head  like  a  chorus 
For  days,  the  memory  of  the  affray  did  not  leave  her 
She  guarded,  too,  against  any  recurrence  of  the  scene. 

Her  hatred  for  Burton  seemed  to  increase  the  fascina- 
tion of  Neville.  She  did  not  think  of  them  together,  but 
it  always  seemed  to  happen  that,  immediately  after  thrust- 
ing away  the  toad-like  picture  of  the  chairman,  sh( 
thought  of  the  blue-eyed  boy.  Yet  her  relations  witf 
Neville  were  ill-fated.  Some  days  after  the  foul  incident 
in  the  change  room,  Neville  took  her  for  one  of  his  little 
"busts."  As  it  was  one  of  her  late  nights  he  called  foi 
her  at  a  quarter  past  nine.  They  walked  towards  the  wesi 
and,  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  Neville  escorted  her  into  one  01 
the  enormous  restaurants  that  the  Refreshment  Rendez 
vous,  known  to  London  as  the  Ah-Ah,  runs  as  anony- 
mously as  it  may. 

Victoria  was  amused.  The  R.  R.  was  the  owner  of  £ 
palace,  built,  if  not  for  the  classes,  certainly  not  for  the 
masses.  Its  facing  was  of  tortured  Portland  stone,  where 
Greek  columns,  Italian,  Louis  XIV  and  Tudor  moulding: 
blended  with  rich  Byzantine  gildings  and  pre-Raphaelite 
frescoes.  Inside,  too,  it  was  all  plush,  mainly  red;  golc 
again;  palms,  fountains,  with  goldfish  and  tin  ducks.  The 
restaurant  was  quite  a  fair  imitation  of  the  Carlton,  but  £ 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  113 

table  d'hote  supper  was  provided  for  eighteen  pence,  in- 
cluding finger  bowls  in  which  floated  a  rose  petal. 

Neville  and  Victoria  sat  at  a  small  table  made  for  two. 
She  surrendered  her  feet  to  the  clasp  of  his.  Around  her 
were  about  two  hundred  couples  and  a  hundred  family 
parties.  Most  of  the  young  men  were  elaborately  casual ; 
they  wore  blue  or  tweed  suits,  a  few,  frock  coats  marred 
by  double  collars;  they  had  a  tendency  to  loll  and  to  puff 
the  insolent  tobacco  smoke  of  Virginias  towards  the  dis- 
tant roof.  Their  young  ladies  talked  a  great  deal  and 
looked  about.  There  was  much  wriggling  of  chairs,  much 
giggling,  much  pulling  up  of  long  gloves  over  bare  arms. 
In  a  corner,  all  alone,  a  young  man  in  well-fitting  evening 
clothes  was  consuming  in  melancholy  some  chocolate  and 
a  sandwich. 

Neville  plied  Victoria  with  the  major  part  of  a  half 
bottle  of  claret. 

"Burgundy's  'the  thing,"  he  said.    "More  body  in  it." 

''Yes,  it  is  good,  isn't  it?  I  mustn't  have  any  more, 
though." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right,"  said  Neville  indulgently.  "Let's 
have  some  coffee  and  a  liqueur." 

"No,  no  liqueur  for  me." 

"Well,  coffee  then.    Here,  waiter." 

Neville  struggled  for  some  minutes.  He  utterly  failed  to 
gain  the  ear  of  the  waiters. 

"Let's  go,  Beauty,"  said  Victoria.  "I  don't  want  any 
coffee.  No,  really,  I'd  rather  not.  I  can't  sleep  if  I 
take  it." 

The  couple  walked  up  Regent  Street,  then  along  Picca- 
dilly. Neville  held  Victoria's  arm.  He  had  slipped  his 
fingers  under  the  long  glove.  She  did  not  withdraw  her 
arm.  His  touch  tickled  her  senses  to  quiescence  if  not  to 
satisfaction.  They  turned  into  the  park.  Just  behind  the 
statue  of  Achilles  they  stepped  upon  the  grass  and  at 
once  Neville  threw  his  arm  round  Victoria.  It  was  a  little 
chilly;  mist  was  rising  from  the  grass.  The  trees  stood 
blackly  out  of  it,  as  if  sawn  off  a  few  feet  from  the  ground. 
Neville  stopped.  A  little  smile  was  on  his  lips. 

"Beauty  boy,"  said  Victoria. 


H4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

He  drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed  her.  He  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead,  then  on  the  cheek,  for  he  was* a  syba- 
rite, in  matters  of  love  something  of  an  artist,  just  behinc 
the  ear,  then  passionately  on  the  lips.  Victoria  closed  ha 
eyes  and  threw  one  arm  round  his  neck.  She  felt  exhila- 
rated, as  if  gently  warmed.  They  walked  further  west- 
wards, and  with  every  step  the  fog  thickened. 

"Let's  stop,  Beauty,"  said  Victoria,  after  they  'had 
rather  suddenly  walked  up  to  a  thicket.  "We'll  get  lost  ir 
the  wilderness." 

"And  wilderness  were  paradise  enow,"  murmurec 
Neville  in  her  ear. 

Victoria  did  not  know  the  hackneyed  line.  It  sounded 
beautiful  to  her.  She  laughed  nervously  and  let  Neville 
draw  her  down  by  his  side  on  the  grass. 

"Oh,  let  me  go,  Beauty,"  she  whispered.  "Suppose 
someone  should  come." 

Neville  did  not  answer.  He  had  clasped  her  to  him 
His  lips  were  more  insistent  on  hers.  She  felt  his  hanc 
on  her  breast. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Beauty,  don't,  please  don't,"  she  said 
weakly. 

For  some  minutes  she  lay  passive  in  his  grasp.  He  had 
undone  the  back  of  her  blouse.  His  hand,  cold  and  dry, 
had  slipped  along  her  shoulder,  seeking  warmth. 

Slowly  his  clasp  grew  harder;  he  used  his  weight.  Vic- 
toria bent  under  it.  Something  like  faintness  came  ovei 
her. 

"Victoria,  Victoria,  my  darling."  The  voice  seemed 
far  away.  She  was  giving  way  more  and  more.  Not  e 
blade  of  grass  shuddered  under  its  shroud  of  mist.  Frorr 
the  road  came  the  roar  of  a  motorbus,  like  a  muffled  drum 
Then  she  felt  the  damp  of  the  grass  on  her  back  througr. 
the  opening  of  her  blouse. 

A  second  later  she  was  sitting  up.  She  had  thrust 
Neville  away  with  a  savage  push  under  the  chin.  He 
seized  her  once  more.  She  fought  him,  seeing  nothing  tc 
struggle  with  but  a  silent  dark  shadow. 

"No.  Beauty,  no,  you  mustn't,"  she  panted. 

They  were  standing  then,  both  of  them. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  115 

"Vic,  darling,  why  not?"  pleaded  Neville  gently,  still 
holding  her  hand. 

"I  don't  know.    Oh,  no,  really  I  can't,  Beauty." 

She  did  not  know  it,  but  generations  of  clean  living 
were  fighting  behind  her,  driving  back  and  crushing  out 
the  forces  of  nature.  She  did  not  know  that,  like  most 
women,  she  was  not  a  free  being  but  the  great-grand- 
daughter of  a  woman  whose  forbears  had  taught  her  that 
illegal  surrender  is  evil. 

"I'm  sorry,  Beauty,  .  .  .  it's  my  fault,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  said  Neville  icily,  dropping  her 
hand.  "You're  playing  with  me,  that's  all." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Victoria,  tears  of  excitement  in  her 
eyes.  "Oh,  Beauty,  don't  you  understand?  We  women, 
we  can't  do  what  we  like.  It's  so  hard.  We're  poor,  and 
life  is  so  dull  and  we  wish  we  were  dead.  And  then  a  man 
comes  like  you  and  the  only  thing  he  can  offer,  we  mustn't 
take." 

"But  why,  why?"  asked  Beauty. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Victoria.  "We  mustn't.  At  any 
rate  I  mustn't.  My  freedom  is  all  I've  got  and  I  can't  give 
it  up  to  you  like  that.  I  like  you,  you  know  that,  don't 
you,  Beauty?" 

Neville  did  not  answer. 

"I  do,  Beauty.  But  I  can't,  don't  you  see.  If  I  were 
a  rich  woman  it  would  be  different.  I'd  owe  nobody  any- 
thing. But  I'm  poor;  it'd  pull  me  down  and  .  .  .  when 
a  woman's  down,  men  either  kick  or  kiss  her." 

Neville  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Let's  go,"  he  said. 

Silently,  side  by  side,  they  walked  out  of  the  park. 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

OCTOBER  was  dying,  its  russet  tints  slowly  merging  into 
grey.  Thin  mists,  laden  with  fine  specks  of  soot,  had  pen- 
etrated into  the  "Rosebud."  Victoria,  in  her  black  busi- 
ness dress,  under  which  she  now  had  to  wear  a  vest  which 
rather  killed  the  tip-drawing  power  of  her  openwork 
blouse,  was  setting  her  tables,  quickly  crossing  red  cloths 


over  White,  polishing  the  glasses,  arranging  knives  and 
forks  in  artistic  if  inconvenient  positions.  It  was  ten 
o'clock,  but  business  had  not  begun,  neither  Mr.  Stein  nor 
Butty  having  arrived. 

"Cold,  ain't  it?"  remarked  Gertie. 

"Might  be  colder,"  said  Bella  Prodgitt. 

Victoria  came  towards  them,  carrying  a  trayful  of 
cruets. 

"  'Ow's  Beauty?"  asked  Gertie. 

Victoria  passed  by  without  a  word.  This  romance  had 
not  added  to  the  popularity  of  the  chairman's  favourite. 
Cora  and  Gladys  were  busy  dusting  the  counter  and  pol- 
ishing the  urns.  Lottie,  in  front  of  a  wall  glass,  was  put- 
ting the  finishing  touches  to  the  set  of  her  cap.  The  door 
opened  to  let  in  Mr.  Stein,  strapped  tight  in  his  frock 
coat,  his  top  hat  set  far  back  on  his  bullet  head.  He 
glared  for  a  moment  at  the  staff  in  general,  then  without 
a  word  took  a  letter  addressed  to  him  from  a  rack  bearing 
several  addressed  to  customers,  and  passed  into  the  cash 
desk.  The  girls  resumed  their  polishing  more  busily. 
Quickly  the  night  wrappings  fell  from  the  chandeliers;  the 
rosebud  baskets  were  teased  into  shape;  the  tables,  loaded 
swiftly  with  their  sets,  grew  more  becoming.  Victoria, 
passing  from  table  to  table,  set  on  each  a  small  vase  full  of 
chrysanthemums. 

"I  say,  Gladys,  look  at  Stein,"  whispered  Cora  to  her 
neighbour.  Gladys  straightened  herself  from  under  the 
counter  and  followed  the  direction  of  Cora's  finger. 

"Lord,"  she  said,  "what's  up?" 

Bella's  attention  was  attracted.  She,  too,  was  interested 
in  her  bovine  way.  Mr.  Stein's  attitude  was  certainly  un- 
usual. He  held  a  sheet  of  paper  in  one  hand,  his  other 
hand  clutching  at  his  cheek  so  hard  as  to  make  one  of 
his  eyes  protrude.  Both  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sheet 
of  paper,  incredulous  and  horror-stricken. 

"I  say,  Vic,  what's  the  matter  with  the  little  swine?" 
suddenly  said  Lottie,  who  had  at  length  noticed  him. 

Victoria  looked.  Stein  had  not  moved.  For  some  sec- 
onds all  the  girls  gazed  spellbound  at  the  frozen  figure  in 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  117 

the  cashbox.  The  silence  of  tragedy  was  on  them,  a 
silence  which  arrests  gesture  and  causes  hearts  to  beat. 

"Lord,  I  can't  stick  this,"  whispered  Cora,  "there's 
something  wrong."  Quickly  diving  under  the  counter 
flap  she  ran  towards  the  pay  box  where  Stein  still  sat 
unmoving,  as  if  petrified.  The  little  group  of  girls  watched 
her.  Bella's  stertorous  breathing  was  plainly  heard. 

Cora  opened  the  glass  door  and  seized  Stein  by  the 
arm. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Stein?"  she  said  excitedly, 
"are  you  feeling  queer?" 

Stein  started  like  a  somnabulist  suddenly  awakened  and 
looked  at  her  stupidly,  then  at  the  motionless  girls  in  the 
shop. 

"Nein,  nem,  lassen  sie  dock,"  he  muttered. 

"Mr.  Stein,  Mr.  Stein,"  half-screamed  Cora. 

"Oh,  get  out,  I'm  all  right,  but  the  game's  up.  He's 
gone.  The  game's  up  I  tell  you.  The  game's  up." 

Cora  looked  at  him  round-eyed.  Mr.  Stein's  idioms 
frightened  her  almost  more  than  his  German. 

Stein  was  babbling,  speaking  louder  and  louder. 

"Gone  away,  Burton.  Bankrupt  and  got  all  the 
cash.  .  .  .  See?  You  get  the  sack.  Starve.  So  do  I 
and  my  wife.  .  .  .  Ach,  ach,  ach,  ach.  Mein  Gott,  Mem 
Gott,  was  soils.  .  .  ." 

Gertie  watched  from  the  counter  with  a  heightened 
colour.  Lottie  and  Victoria,  side  by  side,  had  not  moved. 
A  curious  chill  had  seized  Victoria,  stiffening  her  wrists 
and  knees.  Stein  was  talking  quicker  and  quicker,  with 
a  voice  that  was  not  his. 

"Ach,  the  damned  scoundrel  .  .  .  the  sckweinehund 
...  he  knew  the  business  was  going  to  the  dogs,  ach, 
sckwemekund,  schweinehund.  .  .  ."  He  paused.  Less 
savage,  his  thoughts  turned  to  his  losses.  "Two  hundred 
shares  he  sold  me.  ...  I  paid  a  premium  .  .  .  they  vas 
to  go  to  four  .  .  .  ach,  ach,  ach.  .  .  .  I'm  in  the  cart." 

Gertie  sniggered  gently.  The  idiom  had  swamped  the 
tragedy.  Stein  looked  round  at  the  sound.  His  face 
had  gone  leaden;  his  greasy  plastered  hair  was  all  awry. 


u8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Vat  you  laughing  at,  gn?"  he  asked  savagely,  sud- 
denly resuming  his  managerial  tone. 

"Take  it  we're  bust,  ain't  we?"  said  Gertie,  stepping 
forward  jauntily. 

Stein  lifted,  then  dropped  one  hand. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "bust." 

"Thank  you  for  a  week's  wages,  Mr.  Stein,"  said  Ger- 
tie, "and  I'll  push  off,  if  yer  don't  mind." 

Stein  laughed  harshly.  With  a  theatrical  movement  he 
seized  the  cash  drawer  by  the  handle,  drew  it  out  and 
flung  it  on  the  floor.  It  was  empty. 

"Oh,  that's  'ow  it  is,"  said  Gertie.  "You're  a  fine  gen- 
tleman, I  don't  think.  Bloomin'  lot  of  skunks.  What 
price  that,  mate?"  she  screamed,  addressing  Bella,  whc 
still  sat  in  her  chair,  her  cheeks  rising  and  falling  like  the 
sides  of  a  cuttlefish.  "  'Ere's  a  fine  go.  Fellers  comes 
along  and  tikes  in  poor  girls  like  me  and  you  and  steals 
the  bread  outer  their  mouths.  I'll  'ave  yer  run  in,  yei 
bloody  foreigner."  She  waved  her  fist  in  the  man's  face, 
"For  two  pins,"  she  screamed,  "I'd  smash  yer  face, 
I'd  .  .  ." 

"Chuck  it,  Gertie,"  said  Lottie,  suddenly  taking  her  by 
the  arm,  "don't  you  see  he's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it?': 

"Oh,  indeed,  Miss  Mealymouth,"  sneered  Gertie,  "what 
I  want  is  my  money.  .  .  ." 

"Leave  him  alone,  Gertie,"  said  Victoria,  "you  can't 
kick  a  man  when  he's  down." 

Gertie  looked  as  if  she  were  about  to  explode.  Then 
the  problem  became  too  big  for  her.  In  her  little  Cockney 
brain  the  question  was  insolubly  revolving:  "Can  you  kick 
a  man  when  he's  down  .  .  .?  Can  you  kick  .  .  .?" 

Mr.  Stein  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  He  was 
pulling  himself  together. 

"Close  de  door,  Cora,"  he  commanded.  "Now  then, 
the  company's  bankrupt,  there's  nothing  in  the  cash-box. 
You  get  the  push.  .  .  .  I  get  the  push."  His  voice  broke 
slightly.  His  face  twitched.  "You  can  go.  Get  another 
job."  He  looked  at  Gertie. 

"Put  down  your  address.    I  give  it  to  the  police.    You 


get  something  for  wages."  He  slowly  turned  away  and 
sat  down  on  a  chair,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall. 

There  was  a  repressed  hubbub  of  talking.  Then  Gertie 
made  the  first  move  and  went  up  to  the  change  room. 
She  came  back  a  minute  or  two  later  in  her  long  coat  and 
large  hat,  carrying  a  parcel  which  none  noticed  as  being 
rather  large  for  a  comb.  It  contained  the  company's  cap 
and  apron  which,  thought  she,  she  might  as  well  save 
from  the  wreck. 

Gertie  shook  hands  with  Cora.  "See  yer  ter-night,"  she 
said  airily,  "same  old  place;  T)ye,  Miss  Prodgitt,  'ope 
'Force'  '11  lift  you  out  of  this."  She  shook  hands  with 
Victoria,  a  trifle  coldly,  kissed  Lottie,  threw  one  last 
malevolent  look  at  Stein's  back.  The  door  closed  behind 
her.  She  had  passed  out  of  the  backwater  into  the  main 
stream. 

Lottie,  a  little  self-consciously,  pulled  down  the  pink 
blinds,  in  token  of  mourning.  The  "Rosebud"  hung 
broken  on  its  stalk.  Then,  silently,  she  went  up  into  the 
change  room,  followed  by  Cora;  a  pace  behind  came  Vic- 
toria, all  heavy  with  gloom.  They  dressed  silently.  Cora, 
without  a  word,  kissed  them  both,  collected  her  small 
possessions  into  a  reticule,  then  shook  hands  with  both 
and  kissed  them  again.  The  door  closed  behind  her. 
When  Lottie  and  Victoria  went  down  into  the  shop,  Cora 
also  had  passed  into  the  main  stream.  Gladys  had  gone 
with  her. 

The  two  girls  hesitated  for  a  moment  as  to  whether 
they  should  speak  to  Stein.  It  was  almost  dark,  for  the 
October  light  was  too  weak  to  filter  through  the  thick 
pink  blinds.  Lottie  went  up  to  the  dark  figure. 

"Cheer  up,"  she  said  kindly,  "it's  a  long  lane  that  has 
no  turning." 

Stein  looked  up  uncomprehendingly,  then  sank  his  head 
into  his  hands. 

As  Lottie  and  Victoria  turned  once  more,  the  front  door 
open  behind  them,  all  they  saw  was  Bella  Prodgitt,  lym- 
phatic as  ever,  motionless  on  her  chair,  like  a  watcher 
over  the  figure  of  the  man  silently  mourning  his  last 
hopes. 


120  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

As  they  passed  into  the  street  the  fresh  air  quickened 
by  the  coming  cold  of  winter  stung  their  blood  to  action. 
The  autumn  sunlight,  pale  like  the  faded  gold  of  hair  that 
age  has  silvered,  threw  faint  shadows  on  the  dry  white 
pavements  where  little  whirlwinds  of  dust  chased  and  fig- 
ured like  swallows  on  the  wing. 

Lottie  and  Victoria  walked  quickly  down  the  city  streets. 
It  was  half-past  eleven,  a  time  when,  the  rush  of  the  morn- 
ing over,  comparative  emptiness  awaits  the  coming  of  the 
midday  crowds;  every  minute  they  were  stopped  by  the 
blocks  of  drays  and  carriages  which  come  in  greater  num- 
bers in  the  road  as  men  grow  fewer  on  the  pavements.  The 
unaccustomed  liberty  of  the  hour  did  not  strike  them;  for 
depression,  a  sense  of  impotence  before  fatality,  was  upon 
them.  Indeed,  they  did  not  pause  until  they  reached  on 
the  Embankment  the  spot  where  the  two  beautiful  youths 
prepare  to  fasten  on  one  another  their  grip  of  bronze. 
They  sat  down  upon  a  seat  and  for  a  while  remained  si- 
lent. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Lottie?"  asked  Victoria. 

'•Look  out  for  another  job,  of  course,"  said  Lottie. 

"In  the  same  line?"  said  Victoria. 

"Ill  try  that  first,"  replied  Lottie,  "but  you  know  I'm 
not  particular.  There's  all  sorts  of  shops.  Nice  soft  little 
jobs  at  photographers,  and  manicuring  showrooms,  I  don't 
mind." 

Victoria,  with  the  leaden  weight  of  former  days  press- 
ing on  her,  envied  Lottie's  calm  optimism.  She  seemed 
so  capable.  But  so  far  she  herself  was  concerned,  she  did 
not  feel  sure  that  the  "other  job"  would  so  easily  be 
found.  Indeed,  the  memory  of  her  desperate  hunt  for 
work  wrapped  itself  round  her,  cold  as  a  shroud. 

"But  what  if  you  can't  get  one?"  she  faltered. 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,"  said  Lottie,  airily.  "I  can 
live  with  my  married  sister  for  a  bit,  but  I'll  find  a  job 
somehow.  That  doesn't  worry  me.  What  are  you  think- 
ing of?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Victoria  slowly,  "I  must  look  out, 
I  suppose." 

"Hard  up?"  asked  Lottie. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  121 

"No,  not  exactly,"  said  Victoria.  "I'm  not  rolling  in 
wealth,  you  know,  but  I  can  manage." 

"Well,  don't  you  go  and  get  stranded  or  anything,"  said 
Lottie.  "It  doesn't  do  to  be  proud.  It's  not  much  I  can 
do,  but  anyhow  you  let  me  know  if —  She  paused. 
Victoria  put  her  hand  on  hers. 

"You're  a  bit  of  all  right,  Lottie,"  she  said  softly,  her 
feelings  forming  naturally  into  the  language  of  her  adopted 
class.  For  a  few  minutes  the  girls  sat  hand  in  hand. 

"Well,  I'd  better  be  going,"  said  Lottie.  "I'm  going 
to  my  married  sister  at  Highgate  first.  Time  enough  to 
look  about  this  afternoon." 

The  two  girls  exchanged  addresses.  Victoria  watched 
her  friend's  slim  figure  grow  smaller  and  slimmer  under 
her  crown  of  pale  hair,  then  almost  fade  away,  merge  into 
men  and  women  and  suddenly  vanish  at  a  turn,  swallowed 
up.  With  a  little  shiver  she  got  up  and  walked  away 
quickly  towards  the  west.  She  was  lonely  suddenly,  hor- 
ribly so.  One  by  one,  all  the  links  of  her  worldly  chain 
had  snapped.  Burton,  the  sensual  brute,  was  gone;  Stein 
was  perhaps  sitting  still  numb  and  silent  in  the  darkened 
shop;  Gertie,  flippant  and  sharp,  had  sailed  forth  on  life's 
ocean,  there  to  be  tossed  like  a  cork  and  like  a  cork  to 
swim;  now  Lottie  was  gone,  cool  and  confident,  to  dan- 
gers underrated  and  unknown.  She  stood  alone. 

As  she  reached  Westminster  Bridge  a  strange  sense  of 
familiarity  overwhelmed  her.  A  well-known  figure  was 
there  and  it  was  horribly  symbolical.  It  was  the  old  va- 
grant of  bygone  days,  sitting  propped  up  against  the 
parapet,  clad  in  his  filthy  rags.  From  his  short  clay  pipe, 
at  long  intervals,  he  puffed  wreaths  of  smoke  into  the  blue 
air. 

CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  russet  of  October  had  turned  into  the  bleak  dark- 
ness of  December.  The  threat  of  winter  was  in  the  air; 
it  hissed  and  sizzled  in  the  bare  branches  as  they  bent  in 
the  cold  wind,  shaking  quivering  drops  of  water  broad- 
cast as  if  sowing  the  seeds  of  pain.  Victoria  stopped  for 


122  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the  house  in  Star  Street, 
looked  up  and  down  the  road.  It  was  black  and  sodden 
with  wet;  the  pavement  was  greasy  and  glistening,  flecked 
with  cabbage  stalks  and  orange  peel.  Then  she  looked 
across  at  the  small  shop  where,  though  it  was  Sunday,  a 
tailor  sat  cross-legged  almost  on  a  level  with  the  street, 
painfully  collecting  with  weary  eyes  the  avaricious  light. 
His  back  was  bowed  with  habit;  that  and  his  bandy  legs 
told  of  his  life  and  revealed  his  being.  In  the  street,  when 
he  had  time  to  walk  there,  boys  mocked  his  shuffling  gait, 
thus  paying  popular  tribute  to  the  marks  of  honest  toil. 

Victoria  stepped  down  to  the  pavement.  A  dragging 
sensation  made  her  look  at  her  right  boot.  The  sole  was 
parting  from  the  upper,  stitch  by  stitch.  With  something 
that  was  hardly  a  sigh  Victoria  put  her  foot  down  again 
and  slowly  walked  away.  She  turned  into  Edgware  Road, 
followed  it  northwards  for  a  while,  then  doubled  sharply 
back  into  Praed  Street  where  she  lingered  awhile  before 
an  old  curiosity  shop.  She  looked  between  two  prints 
into  the  shop  where,  in  the  darkness,  she  could  see  noth- 
ing. Yet  she  looked  at  nothingness  for  quite  a  long  while. 
Then,  listlessly,  she  followed  the  street,  turned  back 
through  a  square  and  stopped  before  a  tiny  chapel  almost 
at  the  end  of  Star  Street.  The  deity  that  follows  with 
passionless  eyes  the  wanderer  in  mean  streets  knew  from 
her  course  that  this  woman  had  no  errand;  without  emo- 
tion the  Being  snipped  a  few  minutes  from  her  earthly 
span. 

By  the  side  of  the  chapel  sat  an  aged  woman  smothered 
in  rags  so  many  and  so  thick  that  she  was  passing  well 
clad.  She  was  hunched  up  on  a  camp  stool,  all  string  and 
bits  of  firewood.  A  small  stove  carrying  an  iron  tray  told 
that  her  trade  was  selling  roasted  chestnuts;  nothing 
moved  in  the  group;  the  old  woman's  face  was  brown 
and  cracked  as  her  own  chestnuts  and  there  was  less  life 
in  her  than  in  the  warm  scent  of  the  roasting  fruits  which 
gratefully  filled  Victoria's  nostrils. 

The  eight  weeks  which  now  separated  Victoria  from 
the  old  days  at  the  "Rosebud"  had  driven  deeper  yet 
into  her  soul  her  unimportance.  She  was  powerless  be- 


fore  the  world;  indeed,  when  she  thought  of  it  at  all,  she 
no  longer  likened  herself  to  a  cork  tossed  in  the  storm,  but 
to  a  pebble  sunken  and  motionless  in  the  bed  of  a  flowing 
river. 

Upon  the  day  which  followed  her  sudden  uprooting 
Victoria  had  bent  her  back  to  'the  task  of  finding  work. 
She  had  known  once  more  the  despairing  search  through 
the  advertisement  columns  of  the  Daily  Telegraph,  the 
skilful  winnowing  of  chaff  from  wheat,  sudden,  and  then 
baffled  hopes.  Her  new  professional  sense  had  taken  her 
to  the  shops  where  young  women  are  wanted  to  enhance 
the  attraction  of  coffee  and  cigarettes.  But  the  bank- 
ruptcy of  the  " Rosebud"  was  not  an  isolated  case.  The 
dishonesty  of  Burton  was  not  its  cause  but  its  conse- 
quence; the  ship  was  sinking  under  his  feet  when  he  de- 
serted it  after  loading  himself  with  such  booty  as  he  could 
carry.  Victoria  had  discovered  grimly  that  the  first  result 
of  a  commercial  crisis  is  the  submerging  of  those  whose 
labours  create  a  commercial  boom.  Within  a  week  of 
the  "Rosebud"  disaster  the  eleven  city  cafes  of  the  "Lethe, 
Ltd."  had  closed  their  doors.  Two  small  failures  in  the 
West  End  were  followed  by  a  greater  crash.  The  "Peo- 
ple's Restaurants,  Ltd.,"  eaten  out  by  the  thousand  de- 
pots of  the  "Refreshment  Rendezvous,  Ltd.,"  had  filed 
a  voluntary  petition  for  liquidation ;  the  official  liquidator 
had  at  once  inaugurated  a  policy  of  "retrenchment  and 
sound  business  management,"  and,  as  a  beginning,  closed 
two  hundred  shops  in  the  city  and  West  End.  He  pro- 
posed to  exploit  the  suburbs,  and,  after  a  triumphant 
amalgamation  with  the  victorious  "Refreshment  Rendez- 
vous," to  retire  from  law  into  peaceful  directorships  and 
there  collect  innumerable  guineas. 

Victoria  had  followed  the  convulsion  with  passionate 
interest.  For  a  week  the  restaurant  slump  had  been  the 
fashion.  The  manager  of  every  surviving  cafe  in  London 
had  given  it  as  his  deliberate  opinion  that  trade  would 
be  'all  the  better  for  it.  The  financial  papers  published 
grave  warnings  as  to  the  dangers  of  the  restaurant  busi- 
ness, to  which  the  Stock  Exchange' promptly  responded 
by  marking  up  the  prices  of  the  survivors'  shares.  The 


JLVJUULS     \Jt- 


Socialist  papers  had  eloquently  pleaded  for  government 
assistance  for  the  two  thousand  odd  displaced  girls;  a 
Cabinet  Minister  had  marred  his  parliamentary  reputa- 
tion by  endeavouring  to  satisfy  one  wing  of  his  party  that 
the  tearoom  at  South  Kensington  Museum  was  not  a 
Socialistic  venture  and  the  other  wing  that  it  was  an  insti- 
tution leading  up  to  State  ownership  of  the  trade.  A 
girl  discharged  from  the  "Lethe"  had  earned  five  guineas 
by  writing  a  thousand  words  in  a  hated  but  largely  read 
daily  paper.  The  interest  had  been  kept  up  by  the  rescue 
of  a  P.R.  girl  who  had  jumped  off  Waterloo  Bridge.  An- 
other P.R.  girl,  fired  by  example,  had  been  more  successful 
in  the  Lea.  This  valuable  advertisement  enabled  the  Re- 
lief Fund  to  distribute  five  shillings  a  head  to  many  young 
persons  who  had  been  waitresses  at  some  time  or  another; 
there  were  rumours  of  a  knighthood  for  its  energetic 
promoter. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  welter  that  Victoria  had 
found  herself  cast,  with  her  newly  acquired  experience  a 
drug  in  the  market,  and  all  the  world  inclined  to  look 
upon  her  as  a  kind  of  adventuress.  Her  employer's 
failure  was  in  a  sense  her  failure,  and  she  was  handy  to 
blame.  For  three  weeks  she  had  doggedly  continued  her 
search  for  work,  applying  first  of  all  in  the  smart  tea- 
rooms of  the  West,  and  every  day  she  became  more 
accustomed  to  being  turned  away.  Her  soul  hardened 
to  rebuffs  as  that  of  a  beggar  who  learns  to  bear  stoically 
the  denial  of  alms.  After  vainly  trying  the  best  Victoria 
had  tried  the  worst,  but  everywhere  the  story  was  the 
same.  Every  small  restaurant  keeper  was  drawing  his 
horns  in,  feverishly  casting  up  trial  balances;  some  of 
them  in  their  panic  had  damaged  their  credit  by  trying  to 
carve  success  out  of  other  men's  disasters. 

Victoria,  her  teeth  set,  had  faced  the  storm.  She  now 
explored  districts  and  streets  systematically,  almost  house 
by  house.  And  when  her  spirit  broke  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  as  her  perpetual  walks,  the  buffeting  of  rain  and 
wind  soiled  her  clothing,  broke  breaches  into  her  boots, 
chapped  ).er  hands  'as  glove  seams  gave  way,  the  only 
thing  'that  could  brace  her  up  was  the  shrinkage  of  her 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  125 

hoard  by  a  sovereign.  She  placed  the  coin  on  the  mantel- 
piece after  counting  the  remainder.  Monday  morning  saw 
it  reduced  to  eleven  shillings  and  sixpence.  When  the 
crisis  came  she  had  taken  in  sail  by  exchanging  into  the 
second  floor  back,  then  fortunately  vacant,  thus  saving 
three  shillings  in  rent. 

The  sight  of  her  melting  capital  was  a  horror  which 
she  faced  only  once  a  week,  for  at  other  times  she  thrust 
the  thought  away,  but  it  intruded  every  time  with  greater 
insistence.  Untrained  still  in  economy  she  found  it  im- 
possible to  reduce  her  expenditure  below  a  pound.  After 
paying  off  the  mortgage  of  eight  and  sixpence  for  her  room 
and  breakfast,  she  had  to  set  aside  three  shillings  for  fares, 
for  she  dared  not  wade  overmuch  in  the  December  mud. 
The  manageress  of  a  cafe  lost  in  Marylebone  had  heard 
her  kindly,  but  had  looked  at  her  boots  plastered  with 
mud,  then  at  the  dirty  fringes  of  her  petticoats  and  said, 
regretfully  almost,  that  she  would  not  do.  That  day  had 
cost  Victoria  a  pound  almost  wrenched  out  of  the  money 
drawer.  But  this  wardrobe,  though  an  asset,  was  an  in- 
cubus, and  Victoria  at  times  often  hated  it,  for  it  cost  so 
much  in  omnibus  fares  that  she  paid  for  it  every  day  in 
food  stolen  from  her  body. 

By  the  end  of  the  seventh  week  Victoria  had  reduced 
her  hoard  to  four  pounds.  She  now  applied  for  work  like 
an  automaton,  often  going  twice  to  the  same  shop  with- 
out realising  it,  at  other  times  sitting  for  hours  on  a  park 
seat  until  the  drizzle  oozed  frim  her  hair  into  her  neck. 
At  the  end  of  the  seventh  week  she  had  so  lost  conscious- 
ness of  the  world  that  she  walked  all  through  the  Sunday 
i^loom  without  food.  Then,  at  eight  o'clock,  awakening 
siddenly  to  her  need,  she  gorged  herself  with  suet  pud- 
ding at  an  eating  house  in  the  Edgware  Road,  came  back 
to  Star  Street  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

About  four  she  was  aroused  by  horrible  sickness,  which 
left  her  weak,  every  muscle  relaxed  and  every  nerve 
strained  to  breaking  point.  Shapes  blacker  than  the  night 
floated  before  her  eyes;  every  passing  milk  cart  rattled 
savagely  through  her  beating  temples;  twitchings  at  her 
ankles  and  wrists,  and  the  hurried  beat  of  her  heart  shook 


126  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  whole  of  her  body.  She  almost  writhed  on  her  bed, 
up  and  down,  as  if  forcibly  thrown  or  goaded. 

As  the  December  dawn  struggled  through  her  window, 
diffusing  over  the  white  wall  the  light  of  the  condemned 
cell,  she  could  bear  it  no  more.  She  got  up,  washed  hor- 
rible bitterness  from  her  mouth,  clots  from  her  eyes. 
Then,  swaying  with  weariness  and  all  her  pulses  beating, 
she  strayed  into  the  street,  unseeing,  her  boots  unbuttoned, 
into  the  daily  struggle. 

As  the  blind  man  unguided,  or  the  poor  on  the  march, 
she  went  into  the  East,  now  palely  glowing  over  the 
chimney  pots.  She  did  not  feel  her  weariness.  Her  feet 
did  not  belong  to  her;  she  felt  as  if  her  whole  body  were 
one  gigantic  wound  vaguely  aching  under  the  chloroform. 
She  walked  without  intention,  and  as  towards  no  goal.  At 
Oxford  Circus  she  stopped.  Her  eye  had  unconsciously 
been  arrested  by  the  posters  which  the  newsvendor  was 
deftly  glueing  down  on  the  pavement.  The  crude  colours 
of  the  posters,  red,  green,  yellow,  shocked  her  sluggish 
mind  into  action.  One  spoke  of  a  great  reverse  in  Nubia; 
another  repeated  the  information  and  added  a  football 
cup  draw.  A  third  poster,  blazing  red,  struck  such  a 
blow  at  Victoria  that,  for  a  wild  moment,  her  heart  seemed 
to  stop.  It  merely  bore  the  words: 

P.R. 
REOPENS 

Victoria  read  the  two  lines  five  or  six  times,  first  dully, 
then  in  a  whirl  of  emotion.  Her.  blood  seemed  to  go  hot 
and  tingle;  the  twitchings  of  her  wrists  and  ankles  grew 
insistent.  With  her  heart  pounding  with  excitement  she 
asked  for  the  paper  in  a  choked  voice,  refusing  the  half- 
penny change.  Backing  a  step  or  two  she  opened  the 
paper.  A  sheet  dropped  into  the  mud. 

The  newsvendor,  grizzled  and  sunburnt  right  into  the 
wrinkles,  picked  up  the  sheet  and  looked  at  her  wonder- 
ingly.  From  the  other  side  a  corpulent  policeman  watched 
her  with  faint  interest,  reading  her  like  a  book.  He  did 
not  need  to  be  told  that  Victoria  was  out  of  work;  her 
face  showed  that  hope  had  come  into  her  life. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  127 

Victoria  read  every  detail  greedily.  The  enterprising 
liquidator  had  carried  through  the  amalgamation  of  the 
People's  Restaurants  and  the  Refreshment  Rendezvous, 
and  created  the  People's  Refreshment  Rendezvous.  He 
had  done  this  so  quietly  and  suddenly  that  the  effect  was 
a  thunderbolt.  He  had  forestalled  the  decision  of  the 
Court,  so  that  agreements  had  been  ready  and  signed  on 
the  Saturday  evening,  while  leave  had  obscurely  been 
granted  on  the  Friday.  Being  master  of  the  situation  the 
liquidator  was  re-opening  fifty-five  of  the  two  hundred 
closed  shops.  The  paper  announced  his  boast  that  "by 
ten  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  fifty-five  P.  R.  R.'s  would 
be  flying  the  flag  of  the  scone  and  cross  buns."  The  paper 
also  hailed  this  pronouncement  as  Napoleonic. 

Victoria  feverishly  read  the  list  of  the  rescued  depots. 
They  were  mainly  in  Oxford  Street  and  Bloomsbury.  In- 
deed, one  of  them  was  in  Princes  Street.  A  flood  of 
clarity  seemed  to  come  over  Victoria's  brain.  It  was  im- 
possible for  the  P.  R.  or  P.  R.  R.  or  whatever  it  had 
become,  to  have  secured  a  staff  on  the  Sunday.  No 
doubt  they  proposed  to  engage  it  on  the  spot  and  to  rush 
the  organisation  into  working  order  so  as  to  capture  at 
the  outset  the  succes  de  curiosite  which  every  London  daily 
was  beating  up  in  the  breast  of  a  million  idle  men  and 
women.  Clutching  the  paper  in  her  hand  she  ran  across 
Oxford  Street  almost  under  the  wheels  of  a  motor  lorry. 
She  turned  into  Princes  Street,  and  hurled  herself  against 
the  familiar  door,  clutching  at  the  handle. 

There  was  another  girl  leaning  against  the  door.  She 
was  tall  and  slim.  Her  fair  hair  went  to  sandiness.  Her 
black  coat  was  dusty  and  stained.  Her  large  blue  eyes 
started  from  her  colourless  face,  pale  lipped,  hollow  under 
the  cheekbones.  Victoria  recovered  her  breath  and  put 
her  hair  straight  feverishly.  A  short  dark  girl  joined  the 
group,  pressing  her  body  close  against  them.  Then  two 
more.  Then,  one  by  one,  half  a  dozen.  Victoria  dis- 
covered that  her  boots  were  undone,  and  bent  down  to 
do  them  up  with  a  hairpin.  As  she  struggled  with  numb 
fingers  her  rivals  pressed  upon  her  with  silent  hostility. 
As  she  straightened  herself,  the  throng  suddenly  thrust  her 


128  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

away  from  the  door.  Victoria  recovered  herself  and  drove 
against  them,  gritting  her  teeth.  The  fair  girl  was  ground 
against  her;  but  Victoria,  full  of  her  pain  and  bread  lust, 
thrust  her  elbow  twice  into  the  girl's  breast.  She  felt 
something  like  the  rage  of  battle  upon  her  and  its  joy  as 
the  bone  entered  the  soft  flesh  like  a  weapon. 

"Now  then,  steady,  girls,"  said  the  voice  of  the  police- 
man, faint  like  a  dream  voice. 

"Blime,  ain't  they  a  'ot  lot!"  said  another  dream  voice, 
a  loafer's. 

The  crowd  once  more  became  orderly.  Though  quite  a 
hundred  girls  had  now  collected  hardly  any  spoke.  In 
every  face  there  was  tenseness,  though  the  front  ranks 
showed  most  ferocity  in  their  eyes  and  the  late-comers 
most  weariness. 

"Where  you  shovin'?"  asked  a  sulky  voice. 

There  was  a  mutter  that  might  have  been  a  curse. 
Then  silence  once  more;  and  the  girls  fiercely  watched 
for  their  bread,  looking  right  and  left  like  suspicious 
dogs.  A  spruce  young  warehouseman  slowl^  reviewed 
the  girls  and  allowed  his  eyes  to  linger  approvingly  on 
one  or  two.  He  winked  approvingly  at  the  fair  girl,  but 
she  did  not  respond.  She  stood  flat  against  the  door, 
every  inch  of  her  body  spread  so  as  to  occupy  as  much 
space  as  she  could. 

Then,  half-past  seven,  a  young  man  and  a  middle-aged 
woman  shouldering  through  the  wedged  mass,  the  fierce 
rush  into  the  shop  and  there  the  gasp  behind  closed  doors 
among  the  other  winners,  hatless,  their  clothes  torn,  their 
bodices  ripped  open  to  the  stays,  one  with  her  hair  down 
and  her  neck  marked  here  and  there  by  bleeding  scratches. 
Then,  after  the  turmoil  of  the  day  among  the  strangeness, 
without  rest  or  food,  to  make  holiday  for  the  Londoners, 
a  night  heavy  as  lead  and  a  week  every  day  more  me- 
chanical. Victoria  had  returned  to  the  treadmill,  and, 
within  a  week,  knew  it. 

.  .  .  The  clock  struck  five.  Victoria  awoke  from  her 
dream  epic.  She  had  won  her  battle  and  sailed  into 
harbour.  Its  waters  were  already  as  horribly  still  as  those 
of  a  stagnant  pool.  The  old  chestnut  vendor  sat  motion- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  129 

less  on  her  seat  of  firewood  and  string.  Not  a  thought 
chased  over  her  gnarled  brown  face.  From  the  stove 
came  the  faint,  pungent  smell  of  the  charring  peel. 

CHAPTER  XX 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Victoria  had  returned  to  the  city. 
Most  of  the  old  P.R.'s  had  reopened,  after  passing  under 
the  yoke.  A  coat  of  paint  had  transformed  them  into 
P.R.R.'s.  In  fact  their  extinction  was  complete;  nothing 
was  left  of  them  but  the  P.  and  the  chairmanship  of  the 
amalgamated  company,  for  their  chairman  was  an  earl 
and  part  of  the  goodwill.  The  P.R.  had  apparently  been 
bought  up  at  a  fair  rate.  Its  shares  having  fallen  to  six- 
pence, most  of  the  shareholders  had  lost  large  sums; 
whereas  the  directors  and  their  friends,  displaying  the 
acumen  that  is  sometimes  found  among  directors,  had 
quietly  bought  the  shares  up  by  the  thousand  and  by  put- 
ting them  into  the  new  company  had  realised  large  profits. 
As  the  failure  had  happened  during  the  old  year  and  most 
of  the  shops  had  been  reopened  in  the  new,  it  was  quite 
clear  that  the  catering  trade  was  expanding.  It  was  a 
startling  instance  of  commercial  progress. 

Within  a  week  the  P.R.R.  decided  to  start  once  more 
in  the  city.  Victoria,  by  her  own  request,  was  trans- 
ferred to  Moorgate  Street.  She  did  not  like  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Oxford  Circus;  it  was  unfamiliar  without 
being  stimulating.  She  objected,  too,  to  serving  women. 
If  she  must  serve  at  all  she  preferred  serving  men.  She 
did  not  worship  men;  indeed,  the  impression  they  had 
left  on  her  was  rather  unpleasant.  The  subalterns  at  the 
mess  were  dull,  Mr.  Parker  a  stick,  Bobby  was  Bobby, 
Burton  a  cur,  Stein  a  lout,  Beauty,  well,  perhaps  Beauty 
was  a  little  better  and  Cairns  worthy  of  a  kind  thought; 
but  all  the  others,  boys  and  half  men  with  their  futile 
talk,  their  slang,  cribbed  from  the  music  halls,  their  affec- 
tations, their  loud  ties,  were  nothing  but  the  ballast  on 
which  the  world  has  founded  its  permanent  way.  Yet  a 
mysterious  sex  instinct  made  Victoria  prefer  even  them 
to  the  young  ladies  who  frequented  Princes  Street.  It  is 


130  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

better  to  be  made  love  to  insolently  than  to  be  ordered 
about. 

The  Moorgate  P.R.R.  was  one  of  the  curious  crosses 
between  the  ice  cream  shop  and  the  chop  house  where 
thirty  bob  a  week  snatches  a  sixpenny  lunch.  It  was  full 
of  magnificent  indifference.  You  could  bang  your  two- 
pence for  a  small  coffee,  or  luxuriate  in  steak  and  kidney 
pie,  boiled  (i.e.  potatoes),  stewed  prunes  and  cream,  and 
be  served  with  the  difference  of  interest  that  the  record- 
ing angel  may  make  between  No.  1,000,000  and  1,000,- 
ooi.  You  were  seldom  looked  at,  and,  if  looked  at,  for- 
gotten. It  was  as  blatant  as  the  "Rosebud"  had  been 
discreet.  Painted  pale  blue,  it  flaunted  a  plate-glass 
window  full  of  cakes,  packets  of  tea,  pounds  of  chocolate, 
jars  cf  sweets;  some  imitation  chops  garnished  with  imi- 
tation parsley,  and  a  chafing  dish  full  of  stage  eggs  and 
bacon  held  out  the  promise  of  strong  meats.  Enormous 
urns,  polished  like  silver,  could  be  seen  from  the  outside 
emitting  clouds  of  steam;  under  the  chafing  dish,  too, 
came  up  vaporous  jets. 

Inside,  the  P.R.R.  recalled  the  wilderness  and  the  ani- 
mation of  a  bank.  To  the  blue  and  red  tesselated  floor 
were  fastened  many  marble-tipped  tables  squeezed  so  close 
together  that  when  a  customer  rose  to  leave  he  created  an 
eddy  among  his  disturbed  fellows.  The  floor  was 
swamped  with  chairs  which,  during  the  lunch  hour,  dis- 
mally grated  on  the  tiled  floor.  It  was  clean;  for,  after 
every  burst  of  feeding,  the  appointed  scavenger  swept  the 
fallen  crusts,  fragments  of  pudding,  cigarette  ends  and 
banana  skins  into  a  large  bin.  This  bin  was  periodically 
emptied  and  the  contents  sent  to  the  East  End,  whether 
to  be  destroyed  or  to  be  used  for  philanthropic  purposes  is 
not  known. 

The  girls  were  trained  to  quick  service  here.  Victoria 
found  no  difficulty  in  acquiring  the  P.R.R.  swing,  for 
she  had  not  to  memorise  the  variety  of  dishes  which  the 
more  fastidious  Rosebudders  demanded.  Her  mental  load 
seldom  went  beyond  small  teas,  a  coffee  or  two,  half  a  veal 
and  ham  pie,  sandwiches  and  porridge.  There  was  no 
considering  the  bill  of  fare.  It  stood  on  every  table,  im- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  131 

mutable  as  a  constitution  and  as  dull.  At  the  P.R.R.,  a 
man  absorbed  a  maximum  of  stodgy  food,  paid  his  mini- 
mum of  cash  and  vanished  into  an  office  to  pour  out  the 
resultant  energy  for  thirty  bob  a  week.  As  there  were  no 
tips  Victoria  soon  learned  that  courtesy  was  wasted,  so 
wasted  none. 

The  P.R.R.  did  not  treat  its  girls  badly — in  this  sense, 
that  it  treated  them  no  worse  'than  its  rivals  did  theirs; 
it  practised  commercial  morality.  Victoria  received  eight 
shillings  a  week,  to  which  good  Samaritans  added  an  aver- 
age of  fourteen  pence,  dropped  anonymously  into  the  un- 
obtrusive box  near  the  cash  desk.  At  the  "Rosebud"  tips 
averaged  fourteen  shillings  a  week,  but  then  they  were 
given  publicly. 

Besides  her  wages  she  was  given  all  her  meals,  on  a 
scale  suited  to  girls  who  waited  on  Mr.  Thirty  Bob  a 
Week.  Her  breakfast  was  tea,  bread  and  margarine;  her 
dinner,  cold  pudding  or  pie,  according  to  the  unpopularity 
of  the  dishes  among  the  customers,  washed  down  once 
more  with  tea  and  sometimes  followed  by  stewed  fruit  if 
the  quantity  that  remained  made  it  clear  that  some  would 
be  left  over.  The  day  ended  with  supper,  tea,  bread  and 
cheese — a  variety  of  Cheddar  which  the  company  bought 
by  the  ton  on  account  of  its  peculiar  capacity  for  swelling 
and  producing  a  very  tolerable  substitute  for  repletion. 

As  Victoria  was  now  paid  less  than  half  her  former 
wages  she  was  expected  to  work  longer  hours.  The  P.R.R. 
demanded  faithful  service  from  half-past  eight  in  the 
morning  to  nine  in  the  evening,  except  on  one  day  when 
freedom  was  earned  at  six.  Victoria  was  driven  to  gen- 
eralise a  little  about  this;  it  struck  her  as  peculiar  that  an 
increase  of  work  should  synchronise  with  a  decrease  of 
pay,  but  the  early  steps  in  any  education  always  fill  the 
pupil  with  wonderment. 

Yet  she  did  not  repine,  for  she  remembered  too  well 
the  black  days  of  the  old  year  when  the  wolf  slunk  round 
the  house,  coming  every  day  nearer  to  her  door.  She  had 
beaten  him  off  and  there  still  was  joy  in  the  thought  of 
that  victory.  Her  frame  of  mind  was  quiescent,  tempered 
still  with  a  feeling  of  relief.  This  she  shared  with  her 


132  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

companions,  for  every  one  of  them  had  known  such  straits 
as  hers  and  worse.  They  had  come  back  to  the  P.R.R. 
filled  with  exceeding  joy;  craving  bread  they  had  been 
given  buns. 

The  Moorgate  P.R.  was  a  big  depot.  It  boasted,  in 
addition  to  the  ground  floor,  two  smoking-rooms,  one  on 
the  first  floor  and  one  underground,  as  well  as  a  ladies' 
dining-room  on  the  second  floor.  It  had  a  staff  of  twenty 
waitresses,  six  of  whom  were  stationed  in  the  underground 
smoking-room;  Victoria  was  one  of  these.  A  virile  man- 
ageress dominated  them  and  drove  with  splendid  efficiency 
a  concealed  kitchen  team  of  four  who  sweated  in  the  midst 
of  steam  in  an  underground  stokehole. 

Victoria's  companions  were  all  old  P.R.'s  except  Betty. 
They  all  had  anything  between  two  and  five  years'  service 
behind  them.  Nelly,  a  big  raw-boned  country  girl,  was 
still  assertive  and  loud;  she  had  good  looks  of  the  kind 
that  last  up  to  thirty,  made  up  of  fine,  coarse,  healthy  flesh 
lines,  tending  to  redden  at  the  nostrils  and  at  the  ears; 
her  hands  were  shapely  still,  though  reddened  and  thick- 
ened by  swabbing  floors  and  tables.  Maud  was  a  poor 
little  thing,  small  boned,  with  a  flaccid  covering  of  white 
flesh,  inclined  to  quiver  a  little  when  she  felt  unhappy: 
her  eyes  were  undecidedly  green,  her  hair  carroty  in  the 
extreme.  She  had  a  trick  of  drawing  down  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  which  made  her  look  pathetic.  Amy  and 
Jenny  were  both  short  and  darkish,  inclined  to  be  thin, 
always  a  little  tired,  always  willing,  always  in  a  state 
neither  happy  nor  unhappy.  Both  had  nearly  five  years' 
experience  and  could  look  forward  to  another  fifteen  or  so. 
They  had  no  assertiveness,  so  could  not  aspire  to  a  mana- 
gerial position,  such  as  might  eventually  fall  to  the  share 
of  Nelly. 

Betty  was  an  exception.  She  had  not  acquired  the 
P.R.R.  manner  and  probably  never  would.  The  daugh- 
ter of  a  small  draper  at  Horley,  she  had  lived  through  a 
happy  childhood,  played  in  the  fields,  been  to  a  little 
private  school.  Her  father  had  strained  every  nerve  to 
face  on  the  one  hand  the  competition  of  the  London 
stores  extending  octopus-like  into  the  far  suburbs,  on  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  133 

other  that  of  the  pedlars.  Caught  between  the  aristocracy 
and  democracy  of  commerce  he  had  slowly  been  ground 
down.  When  Betty  was  seventeen  he  collapsed  through 
worry  and  overwork.  His  wife  attempted  to  carry  on  the 
business  after  his  death,  bravely  facing  the  enemy,  dis- 
charging assistants,  keeping  the  books,  impressing  Betty 
to  dress  the  window,  then  to  clean  the  shop.  But  the 
pressure  had  become  too  great,  and  on  the  day  when  the 
mortgagees  foreclosed  she  died.  Nothing  was  left  for 
Betty  except  the  clothes  she  stood  in.  Some  poor  rela- 
tives in  London  induced  her  to  join  the  "Lethe."  That 
was  three  years  ago  and  now  she  was  twenty. 

Betty  was  the  tall,  slim  girl  into  whose  breast  Victoria 
had  thrust  her  elbow  when  they  were  fighting  for  bread 
among  the  crowd  which  surged  round  the  door  of  the 
Princes  Street  depot.  She  was  pretty,  perhaps  a  little  too 
delicately  so.  Her  sandy  hair  and  wide  open  china  blue 
eyes  made  one  think  of  a  doll;  but  the  impression  dis- 
appeared when  one  looked  at  her  long  limbs,  her  slightly 
sunken  cheeks.  She  had  a  sweet  disposition,  so  gentle 
that,  though  she  was  a  favourite,  her  fellows  despised  her 
a  little  and  were  inclined  to  call  her  "poor  Betty."  She 
was  nearly  always  tired;  when  she  was  well  she  was  full 
of  simple  and  honest  merriment.  She  would  laugh  then 
if  a  motor  bus  skidded  or  if  she  saw  a  Highlander  in  a 
kilt.  She  had  just  been  shifted  to  the  Moorgaite  Street 
P.R.R.  From  the  first  the  two  girls  had  made  friends 
and  Victoria  was  deeply  glad  to  meet  her  again.  The 
depth  of  that  gladness  is  only  known  to  those  who  have 
lived  alone  in  a  hostile  world. 

"Betty,"  said  Victoria  the  first  morning,  "there's  some- 
thing I  want  to  say.  I've  had  it  on  my  mind.  Do  you 
remember  the  first  time  we  met  outside  the  old  P.R.  in 
Princes  Street?" 

"Don't  I?"  said  Betty.  "We  had  a  rough  time,  didn't 
we?" 

"\Ve  had.  And,  Betty,  perhaps  you  remember  ...  I 
hit  you  in  the  chest.  I've  thought  of  it  so  often  .  .  .  and 
you  don't  know  how  sorry  I  am  when  I  think  of  it." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mind,"  said  Betty,  a  blush  rising  to  her 


134  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

forehead,  "I  understand.    I  was  about  starving,  you  know, 
I  thought  you  were  the  same." 

"No,  not  starving  exactly,"  said  Victoria,  "mad  rather, 
terrified,  like  a  sheep  which  the  dog's  driving.  But  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Betty,  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it." 

Betty  put  her  hand  gently  on  her  companion's. 

"I  understand,  Vic,"  she  said,  "it's  all  over  now;  we're 
friends,  aren't  we?" 

Victoria  returned  the  pressure.  That  day  established 
a  tender  link  between  these  two.  Sometimes,  in  the  slack 
of  three  o'clock,  they  would  sit  side  by  side  for  a  moment, 
their  shoulders  touching.  When  they  met  between  the 
tables,  running,  their  foreheads  beaded  with  sweat,  they 
exchanged  a  smile. 

The  customers  at  the  P.R.R.  were  so  many  that  Vic- 
toria could  hardly  retain  an  impression  of  them.  A  few 
were  curious  enough,  in  the  sense  that  they  were  typical. 
One  corner  of  the  room  was  occupied  during  the  lunch 
hour  by  a  small  group  of  chess  players;  five  of  the  six 
boards  were  regularly  captured  by  them.  They  sat  there 
in  couples,  their  eyes  glued  to  the  board,  allowing  the 
grease  to  cake  slowly  on  their  food;  from  time  to  time 
one  would  swallow  a  mouthful,  sometimes  dropping  mor- 
sels on  the  table.  These  he  would  brush  away  dreamily, 
his  thoughts  far  away,  two  or  three  moves  ahead.  Round 
each  table  sat  a  little  group  of  spectators  who  now  and 
then  shifted  their  plates  and  cups  from  table  to  table 
and  watched  the  games.  At  times,  when  a  game  ended,  a 
table  was  involved  in  a  fierce  discussion:  gambits,  Mor- 
phy's  classical  games,  were  thrown  about.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  room  the  young  domino-players  noisily  played 
matador,  fives  and  threes,  or  plain  matching,  would  look 
round  and  mutter  a  gibe  at  the  enthusiasts. 

Others  were  more  personal.  One,  a  repulsive  individual, 
Greek  or  Levantine,  patronised  one  of  Betty's  tables  every 
day.  He  was  fat,  yellow  and  loud;  over  his  invariably 
dirty  hands  drooped  invariably  dirty  cuffs;  on  one  finger 
he  wore  a  large  diamond  ring. 

"It  makes  me  sick  sometimes,"  said  Betty  to  Victoria. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  135 

"you  know  he  eats  with  both  hands  and  drops  his  food; 
he  snuffles,  too,  as  he  eats,  like  a  pig." 

Another  was  an  old  man  with  a  beautiful  thin  brown 
face  and  white  hair.  He  sat  at  a  very  small  table,  so  small 
that  he  was  usually  alone.  Every  day  he  ordered  dry 
toast,  a  glass  of  milk  and  some  stewed  fruit.  He  never 
read  or  smoked,  nor  did  he  raise  his  eyes  from  the  table. 
An  ancient  bookkeeper,  perhaps,  he  lived  on  some  prin- 
ciple. 

Most  of  the  P.R.R.  types  were  scheduled,  however. 
They  were  mainly  young  men  or  boys  between  fifteen  and 
twenty.  All  were  clad  in  blue  or  dark  suits,  wore  flannel 
shirts,  dickeys  and  no  cuffs.  They  would  congregate  in 
noisy  groups,  talk  with  furious  energy,  and  smoke  Vir- 
ginian cigarettes  with  an  air  of  dare-devilry.  Now  and 
then  one  of  these  would  be  sitting  alone,  reading  unex- 
pected papers  such  as  the  Times,  borrowed  from  the  office. 
Spasmodically,  too,  one  would  be  seen  improving  his 
mind.  Victoria,  within  six  months,  noticed  three  starts 
on  the  part  of  one  of  the  boys;  French,  bookkeeping  and 
electrical  engineering. 

Many  were  older  than  these.  There  were  little  groups 
of  young  men  rather  rakishly  but  shabbily  dressed;  often 
they  wore  a  flower  in  their  buttonhole.  The  old  men 
were  more  pathetic;  their  faces  were  expressionless;  they 
came  to  eat,  not  to  feast. 

Victoria  and  Betty  had  many  conversations  about  the 
customers.  Every  day  Victoria  felt  her  faculty  of  wonder 
increase;  she  was  vaguely  conscious  already  that  men  had 
a  tendency  to  revert  to  types,  but  she  did  not  realise  the 
influence  the  conditions  of  their  lives  had  upon  them. 

"It's  curious,"  she  once  said  to  Betty,  as  they  left  the 
depot  together,  "they're  so  much  alike." 

"I  suppose  they  are,"  said  Betty.    "I  wonder  why?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Victoria,  "but  it  seems  to  me  some- 
how that  they  must  be  born  different  but  that  they  become 
alike  because  they  do  the  same  kind  of  work." 

"It's  rather  awful,  isn't  it?"  said  Betty. 

"Awful?    Well,  I  suppose  it  is.    Think  of  it,  Betty. 


136  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

There's  old  Dry  Toast,  for  instance.  I'm  sure  he's  been 
doing  whatever  he  does  do  for  thirty  or  forty  years." 

"And'll  go  on  doing  it  till  he  dies,"  murmured  Betty. 

"Or  goes  into  the  workhouse,"  added  Victoria.  A  sud- 
den and  horrible  lucidity  had  come  over  her.  "Yes,  Betty, 
that's  what  it  means.  The  boys  are  going  to  be  like  the 
old  man ;  we  see  them  every  day  becoming  like  him.  First 
they're  in  the  twenties  and  are  smart  and  read  the  sport- 
ing news;  then  they  seem  to  get  fat  and  don't  shave  every 
day,  because  they  feel  it's  getting  late  and  it  doesn't 
matter  what  they  look  like;  their  hair  grows  grey,  they 
take  up  chess  or  German,  or  something  equally  ridiculous. 
They  don't  get  a  chance.  They're  born  and  as  soon  as 
they  can  kick  they're  thrust  in  an  office  to  do  the  same 
thing  every  day.  Nobody  cares;  all  their  employers 
want  them  to  do  is  to  be  punctual  and  do  what  they're 
paid  thirty  bob  a  week  for.  Soon  they  don't  try;  they 
die,  and  the  employers  fill  the  billet." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this,  Vic?"  said  Betty,  eyeing 
her  fearfully.  "It  seems  so  true." 

"Oh,  I  just  felt  it  suddenly,  besides  .  .  ."  Victoria  hesi- 
tated. 

"But  is  it  right  that  they  should  get  thirty  bob  a  week 
all  their  lives  while  their  employers  are  getting  thou- 
sands?" asked  Betty,  full  of  excitement. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Victoria  slowly.  Betty's  voice  had 
broken  the  charm.  She  could  no  longer  see  the  vision. 

CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  days  passed  away  horribly  long.  Victoria  was 
now  an  automaton;  she  no  longer  felt  much  of  sorrow 
or  of  joy.  Her  home  life  had  been  reduced  to  a  minimum, 
for  she  could  no  longer  afford  the  luxury  of  "chambers 
in  the  West  End,"  as  Betty  put  it.  She  had  moved  to 
Finsbury;  where  she  had  found  a  large  attic  for  three 
shillings  a  week,  in  a  house  which  had  fallen  from  the 
state  of  mansion  for  a  city  merchant  to  that  of  tenement 
dwelling.  For  the  first  time  since  she  returned  to  London 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  13? 

she  had  furnished  her  own  room.  She  had  bought  out  the 
former  tenant  for  one  pound.  For  this  sum  she  had  en- 
tered into  possession  of  an  iron  bedstead  with  a  straw 
mattress,  a  thick  horse  cloth,  an  iron  washstand  supplied 
with  a  blue  basin  and  a  white  mug,  an  old  armchair  and 
red  curtains.  She  had  no  sheets,  which  meant  discom- 
fort but  saved  washing.  A  chair  had  cost  her  two  shil- 
lings; she  needed  no  cupboard  as  there  was  one  in  the 
wall;  in  lieu  of  a  chest  of  drawers  she  had  her  trunk;  her 
few  books  were  stacked  in  a  shelf  made  out  of  the  side  of 
a  packing  case  and  erected  by  herself.  She  got  water 
from  the  landing  every  morning  except  when  the  taps  were 
frozen.  There  was  no  fireplace  in  the  attic,  but  in  the 
present  state  of  Victoria's  income  this  did  not  matter 
much. 

Every  morning  she  rose  at  seven,  washed,  dressed.  As 
time  went  on  she  ceased  to  dust  and  sweep  every  morning. 
First  she  postponed  the  work  to  the  evening,  then  to  the 
week  end.  On  Sundays  she  breakfasted  off  a  stale  loaf 
bought  among  the  roar  of  Farrington  Street  the  previous 
evening.  A  little  later  she  introduced  a  spirit  lamp  for 
tea;  it  was  a  revolution,  even  though  she  could  never 
muster  enough  energy  to  bring  in  milk. 

After  the  first  flush  of  possession,  the  horrible  gloom 
of  winter  had  engulfed  her.  Sometimes  she  sat  and 
froze  in  the  attic,  and,  in  despair,  went  to  bed  after  vainly 
trying  to  read  Shakespeare  by  the  light  of  a  candle:  he 
did  not  interest  her  much.  At  other  times  the  roaring 
streets,  the  flares  in  the  brown  fog,  the  trams  hurtling 
through  the  air,  'their  headlights  blazing,  had  frightened 
her  back  to  her  home.  On  Sundays,  after  luxuriating  in 
bed  until  ten,  she  usually  went  to  meet  Betty  who  lived  in 
the  parks,  or  the  squares,  wherever  grass  grew.  At  one 
o'clock  Betty  would  introduce  her  as  a  guest  at  her  club 
and  feast  her  for  eightpence  on  roast  beef  and  pudding, 
tea,  and  bread  and  butter.  Then  they  would  start  out 
once  more  towards  the  fields,  sometimes  towards  Hamp- 
stead  Heath,  or  if  it  rained  seek  refuge  in  a  museum  or  a 
picture  gallery.  When  they  parted  in  the  evening,  Vic- 
toria kissed  her  affectionately.  Betty  would  then  hold 


138  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  elder  woman  in  her  arms,  hungrily  almost,  and  softly 
kiss  her  again. 

The  only  thing  that  parted  these  two  at  all  was  the 
mystery  which  Betty  guessed  at.  She  knew  that  Victoria 
was  not  like  the  other  girls;  she  felt  that  there  was  behind 
her  friend's  present  condition  a  past  of  another  kind,  but 
when  she  tried  to  question  Victoria,  she  found  that  her 
friend  froze  up.  And  as  she  loved  her  this  was  a  daily 
grief;  she  looked  at  Victoria  with  a  question  in  her  eyes. 
But  Victoria  would  not  yield  to  the  temptation  of  confid- 
ing in  her ;  she  had  adopted  a  new  class  and  was  not  going 
back  on  it. 

Besides  Betty  there  was  no  one  in  her  life.  None  of 
the  other  girls  were  able  to  meet  her  on  congenial  ground; 
Beauty  had  not  got  her  address;  and,  though  she  had  his, 
she  was  too  afraid  of  complicating  her  life  to  write  to  him. 
She  had  sent  her  address  to  Edward  as  a  matter  of  form, 
but  he  had  not  written;  apparently  her  desire  for  free- 
dom had  convinced  him  that  his  sister  was  mad.  None 
of  the  men  at  the  P.R.R.  had  made  any  decided  advances 
to  her.  She  could  still  catch  every  day  a  glitter  in  the 
eye  of  some  youth,  but  her  maturity  discouraged  the 
boys,  and  the  older  men  were  mostly  too  deeply  sunk  in 
their  feeding  and  smoking  to  attempt  gallantry.  Be- 
sides: Victoria  was  no  longer  the  cream-coloured  flower 
of  olden  days;  she  was  thinner;  her  hands,  too,  were  be- 
coming coarse  owing  to  her  having  to  swab  tables  and 
floors;  much  standing  and  the  fetid  air  of  the  smoking- 
room  were  making  her  sallow. 

Soon  after  Victoria  entered  into  possession  of  her 
"station"  she  knew  most  of  her  customers,  knew  them, 
that  is,  as  much  as  continual  rushes  from  table  to  counter, 
from  floor  to  floor,  permits.  The  casuals,  mostly  young, 
left  no  impression;  lacking  money  but  craving  variety 
these  youth  would  patronise  every  day  a  different  P.R.R. , 
for  they  hoped  to  find  in  a  novel  arrangement  of  the 
counter,  a  new  waitress,  larger  or  smaller  quarters,  the 
element  of  variety  which  the  bill  of  fare  relentlessly  denied 
them.  The  older  men  were  more  faithful  if  no  more 
grateful.  One  of  them  was  a  short,  thin  man,  looking 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  139 

about  forty,  who  for  some  hidden  reason  had  aroused  Vic- 
toria's faded  interest.  His  appearance  was  somewhat 
peculiar.  His  shortness,  combined  with  his  thinness  and 
breadth,  was  enough  to  attract  attention.  Standing 
hardly  any  more  than  five  foot  five,  he  had  dispropor- 
tionately broad  shoulders,  and  yet  they  were  sd  thin  that 
the  bones  showed  bowed  at  the  back.  Better  fed,  he 
would  have  been  a  bulky  man.  His  hair  was  dark, 
streaked  with  grey;  and,  as  it  was  getting  very  thin  and 
beginning  to  recede,  he  gave  the  impression  of  having  a 
very  high  forehead.  His  eyes  were  grey,  set  rather  deep 
under  thick  eyebrows  drawn  close  together  into  a  per- 
manent frown.  Under  his  rather  coarse  and  irregular  nose 
his  mouth  showed  closely  compressed,  almost  lipless;  a 
curious  muscular  distortion  had  tortured  into  it  a  faint 
sneer.  His  hands  were  broad,  a  little  coarse  and  very 
hairy. 

Victoria  could  not  say  why  she  was  interested  in  this 
man.  He  had  no  outward  graces,  dressed  poorly  and 
obviously  brushed  his  coat  but  seldom;  his  linen,  toor 
was  not  often  quite  clean.  Immediately  on  sitting  down 
at  his  usual  table  he  would  open  a  book,  prop  it  up  against 
the  sugar  bowl,  and  begin  to  read.  His  books  did  not 
tell  Victoria  much;  in  two  months  she  noted  a  few  books 
she  did  not  know,  News  from  Nowhere,  Fabian  Essays, 
The  Odyssey,  and  a  book  with  a  long  title  the  biggest 
printed  word  of  which  was  Nietze  or  Niesche.  Victoria 
could  never  remember  this  word,  even  though  her  cus- 
tomer read  the  book  every  day  for  over  a  month.  The 
Odyssey  she  had  heard  of,  but  that  did  not  tell  her  any- 
thing. 

She  had  found  out  his  name  accidentally.  One  day 
he  had  brought  down  three  books  and  had  put  two  under 
his  seat  while  he  read  the  third.  Soon  after  he  had  left, 
reading  still  while  he  went  up  the  stairs.  Victoria  found 
the  books  under  the  chair.  One  was  a  Life  of  William 
Morris,  the  other  the  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Women. 
On  the  flyleaf  of  each  was  written  in  bold  letters  '  'Thomas 
Farwell." 

Victoria  could  not  resist  glancing  at  the  books  during 


i4o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  half  hour  for  lunch.  The  Life  of  William  Morris 
she  did  not  attempt,  remembering  her  experiences  at  school 
with  "Lives"  of  any  kind:  they  were  all  dull.  Mary 
Wollstonecraft's  book  seemed  more  interesting,  but  she 
seemed  to  have  to  wade  through  so  much  that  she  had 
never  heard  of  and  to  have  to  face  a  style  so  crabbed  and 
congested  that  she  hardly  understood  it.  Yet,  something 
in  the  book  interested  her,  and  it  was  regretfully  that  she 
handed  the  volumes  back  to  Farwell  when  he  called  for 
them  at  half-past  six.  He  thanked  her  in  half  a  dozen 
words  and  left. 

Farwell  continued  regular  in  his  attendance.  He  came 
in  on  the  stroke  of  one,  left  at  half-past  one  exactly,  light- 
ing his  pipe  as  he  got  up.  He  never  spoke  to  anyone; 
when  Victoria  stood  before  his  table  he  looked  at  her  for 
a  moment,  gave  his  order  and  cast  his  eyes  down  to  his 
book. 

It  was  about  three  weeks  after  the  incident  of  the  books 
that  he  spoke  to  Victoria.  As  he  took  up  the  bill  of  fare 
he  said  suddenly: 

"Did  you  read  the  Vindication?" 

"I  did  glance  through  it,"  said  Victoria,  feeling,  she 
did  not  know  why,  acutely  uncomfortable. 

"Ah?  interesting,  isn't  it?  Pity  it's  so  badly  written. 
What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Well,  I  hardly  know,"  said  Victoria  reflectively;  "I 
didn't  have  time  to  read  much;  what  I  read  seemed  true." 

"You  think  that  a  recommendation,  eh?"  said  Farwell, 
his  lips  parting  slightly.  "I'd  have  thought  you  saw 
enough  truth  about  life  here  to  like  lies." 

"No,"  said  Victoria,  "I  don't  care  for  lies.  The  nastier 
a  thing  is,  the  better  everybody  should  know  it;  then  one 
day  people  will  be  ashamed." 

"Oh,  an  optimist!"  sniggered  Farwell.  "Bless  you,  my 
child.  Give  me  fillets  of  plaice,  small  white  and  cut." 

For  several  days  after  this  Farwell  took  no  notice  of 
Victoria.  He  gave  his  order  and  opened  his  book  as  be- 
fore. Victoria  made  no  advances.  She  had  talked  him 
over  with  Betty,  who  had  advised  her  to  await  events. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  141 

"You  never  know,"  she  had  remarked,  as  a  clinching 
argument. 

A  day  or  two  later  Victoria  was  startled  by  FarwelPs 
arrival  at  half-past  six.  This  had  never  happened  before. 
The  smoking-room  was  almost  empty,  as  it  was  too  late 
for  teas  and  a  little  too  early  for  suppers.  Farvvell  sat 
down  at  his  usual  table  and  ordered  a  small  tea.  As  Vic- 
toria returned  with  the  cup  he  took  out  a  book  from  under 
two  others  and  held  it  out. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  a  little  nervously,  "I  don't  know 
whether  you're  busy  after  'hours,  but  perhaps  you  might 
like  to  read  this."  The  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  expanded 
and  dilated  a  little. 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much.  I  would  like  to  read  it,"  said 
Victoria  with  the  ring  of  earnestness  in  her  voice.  She 
took  the  book;  it  was  a  battered  copy  of  No.  5  John 
Street. 

"No.  $?    What  a  queer  title,"  She  said. 

"Queer?  not  at  all,"  said  Farwell.  "It  only  seems 
queer  to  you  because  it  is  natural  and  you're  not  used 
to  that.  You're  a  number  in  the  P.R.R.,  aren't  you? 
Just  like  the  house  you  live  in.  And  you're  just  number 
so  and  so ;  so  am  I.  When  we  die  fate  shoves  up  the  next 
number  and  it  all  begins  over  again." 

"That  doesn't  sound  very  cheerful,  does  it?"  said  Vic- 
toria. 

"It  isn't  cheerful.    It's  merely  a  fact." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Victoria.  "Nobody  is  ever 
missed." 

Farwell  looked  at  her  critically.  The  platitude  wor- 
ried him  a  little;  it  was  unexpected. 

"Yes,  exactly,"  he  stammered.  "Anyhow,  you  read  it 
and  let  me  know  what  you  think  of  it."  Thereupon  he 
took  up  another  book  and  began  to  read. 

When  he  had  gone  Victoria  showed  her  prize  to  Betty. 

"You're  getting  on,"  said  Betty  with  a  smile.  "You'll 
be  Mrs.  Farwell  one  of  these  days,  I  suppose." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Betty,"  snapped  Victoria,  "why, 
I'd  have  to  wash  him." 

"You  might  as  well  wash  a  husband  as  a  dish,"  said 


142  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Betty  smoothly.    "Anyhow,  the  other  girls  are  talking." 

"Let  them  talk,"  said  Victoria  rather  savagely,  "so  long 
as  they  don't  talk  to  me." 

Betty  took  her  hand  gently. 

"Sorry,  Vic,  dear,"  she  said.  "You're  not  angry  with 
me,  are  you?" 

"No,  of  course  not,  you  silly,"  said  Victoria,  laughing. 
"There,  run  away,  or  that  old  gent  at  the  end'll  take  a 
fit." 

Farwell  did  not  engage  her  in  conversation  for  a  few 
days,  nor  did  she  make  any  advances  to  him.  She  read 
through  No.  5  John  Street  within  three  evenings;  it  held 
her  with  a  horrible  fascination.  Her  first  plunge  into 
realistic  literature  left  her  shocked  as  by  a  cold  bath.  In 
the  early  days,  at  Lympton,  she  had  subsisted  mainly  on 
Charlotte  Young  and  Rhoda  Broughton.  In  India,  the 
mess  having  a  subscription  at  Mudie's,  she  had  had  good 
opportunities  of  reading;  but,  for  no  particular  reason, 
except  perhaps  that  she  was  newly  married  and  busy  with 
regimental  nothings,  she  had  ceased  to  read  anything  be- 
yond the  Sketch  and  the  Sporting  and  Dramatic.  Thus 
she  had  never  heard  of  the  "common  people"  except  as 
persons  born  to  minister  to  the  needs  of  the  rich.  She 
had  never  felt  any  interest  in  them,  for  they  spoke  a 
language  that  was  not  hers.  No.  5  John  Street,  coming 
to  her  a  long  time  after  the  old  happy  days,  when  she. 
herself  was  struggling  in  the  mire,  was  a  horrible  revela- 
tion; it  showed  her  herself,  and  herself  not  as  'Tilda  tow- 
ering over  fate,  but  as  Nancy  withering  in  the  india- 
rubber  works  for  the  benefit  of  the  Ridler  system. 

She  read  feverishly  by  the  light  of  a  candle.  At  times 
she  was  repelled  by  the  vulgarity  of  Low  Covey,  by  the 
grossness  which  seemed  to  revel  in  poverty  and  dirt.  But 
when  she  cast  her  eyes  round  her  own  bare  walls,  looked 
at  her  sheetless  bed,  a  shiver  ran  over  her. 

"These  are  my  people,"  she  said  aloud.  The  candle, 
clamouring  for  the  snuffers,  guttered,  sank  low,  nearly 
went  out. 

Shivering  again  before  the  omen,  she  trimmed  the  wick. 
She  returned  the  book  to  Farwell  by  slipping  it  on  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  143 

table  next  day.  He  took  it  without  a  word,  but  returned 
at  half-past  six  as  before. 

"Well?"  he  asked  with  a  faint  smile. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Victoria.  "It's  wonder- 
ful." 

"Wonderful,  indeed?  Most  commonplace,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Victoria.  "It's  extraordinary,  it's  like 
.  .  .  like  light." 

FarwelFs  eyes  suddenly  glittered. 

"Ah,"  he  said  dreamily,  "light!  light  in  this,  the  outer 
darkness." 

Victoria  looked  at  him,  a  question  in  her  eyes. 

"If  only  we  could  all  see,"  he  went  on.  "Then,  as  by 
a  touch  of  a  magician's  wand,  flowers  would  crowd  out 
the  thistles,  the  thistles  that  the  asses  eat  and  thank  their 
God  for.  It  is  in  our  hands  to  make  this  the  Happy  Val- 
ley, and  we  make  it  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  Victoria  felt  her  pulse 
quicken. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  understand.  It's  because 
we  don't  understand  that  we  suffer.  We're  not  cruel,  are 
we?  We're  stupid." 

"Stupid?"  A  ferocious  intonation  had  come  into  Far- 
well's  voice.  "I  should  say  so!  Forty  million  men, 
women  and  children  sweat  their  lives  out  day  by  day  so 
that  four  million  may  live  idly  and  become  too  heavy  even 
to  think.  I  could  forgive  them  if  they  thought,  but  the 
world  contains  only  two  types:  Lazarus  with  poor  man's 
gout  and  Dives  with  fatty  degeneration  of  the  brain." 

Victoria  felt  nervous.  Passion  shook  the  man's  hands 
as  he  clutched  the  marble  top  of  the  table. 

"Mr.  Farwell,"  she  faltered,  "I  don't  want  to  be  stupid. 
I  want  to  understand  things.  I  want  to  know  why  we 
slave  twelve  hours  a  day  when  others  do  nothing  and, 
oh,  can  it  be  altered?" 

Farwell  had  started  at  the  mention  of  his  name.  His 
passion  had  suddenly  fallen. 

"Altered?  Oh,  yes,"  he  stammered,  "that's  if  the  race 
lasts  long  enough.  Sometimes  I  think,  as  I  see  men 


144  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

struggling  to  get  on  top  of  one  another,  like  crabs  in  a 
bucket  .  .  .  Like  crabs  in  a  bucket,"  he  repeated  dream- 
ily, visualising  the  simile.  "But  I  cannot  draw  men  from 
stones,"  he  said,  smiling;  "it  is  not  yet  time  for  Deucalion. 
I'll  bring  you  another  book  to-morrow." 

Farwell  rose  abruptly  and  left  Victoria  singularly 
stirred.  He  was  a  personality,  she  felt;  something  quite 
unusual.  He  was  less  a  man  than  a  figment,  for  he  seemed 
top  heavy  almost.  He  concentrated  the  hearer's  atten- 
tion so  much  on  his  spoken  thought  that  his  body  passed 
unperceivecl,  receded  into  the  distance. 

While  Victoria  was  changing  to  go,  the  staff  room  some- 
how seemed  darker  and  dirtier  than  ever.  It  was  seldom 
swept  and  never  cleaned  out.  The  management  had 
thoughtfully  provided  nothing  but  pegs  and  wooden 
benches,  so  as  to  discourage  lounging.  Victoria  was 
rather  late,  so  that  she  found  herself  alone  with  Lizzie,  the 
cashier.  Lizzie  was  red-haired,  very  curly,  plump,  pink 
and  white.  A  regular  little  spark.  She  was  very  popu- 
lar; her  green  eyes  and  full  curved  figure  often  caused 
a  small  block  at  the  desk. 

"You  look  tired,"  she  said  good-naturedly. 

"Suppose  I  am?"  said  Victoria.    "Aren't  you?" 

"So  so.    Don't  mind  my  job." 

"Mm,  I  suppose  it  isn't  so  bad  sitting  at  the  desk." 

"No,"  said  Lizzie,  "pays,  too." 

"Pays?" 

Lizzie  flushed  and  hesitated.  Then  the  desire  to  boast 
burst  its  bonds.  She  must  tell,  she  must.  It  didn't  mat- 
ter after  all.  A  craving  for  admiration  was  on  her. 

"Tell  you  what,"  she  whispered.  "I  get  quite  two  and 
a  kick  a  week  out  of  that  job." 

Victoria's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"You  know,"  went  on  Lizzie,  "the  boys  look  at  me  a 
bit."  She  simpered  slightly.  "Well,  once  one  of  them 
gave  me  half  a  bob  with  a  bob  check.  He  was  looking  at 
me  in  the  eye,  well !  that  mashed,  I  can  tell  you  he  looked 
like  a  boiled  fish.  Sort  of  inspiration  came  over  me." 
She  stopped. 

"Well?"  asked  Victoria,  feeling  a  little  nervous. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  145 

"Well  ...  I  ...  I  gave  him  one  half  crown  and  three 
two-bob  pieces.  Smiled  at  him.  He  boned  the  money 
quick  enough,  wanted  to  touch  my  hand,  you  see.  Never 
saw  it." 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment.  "Then  you  gave  him 
eight  and  six  instead  of  nine  shillings?" 

"You've  hit  it.  Bless  you,  he  never  knew.  Mashed,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"Then  you  did  him  out  of  sixpence?" 

"Right.  Comes  off  once  in  three.  Say  'sorry'  when 
I'm  caught  and  smile  and  it's  all  right.  Never  try  it 
twice  on  the  same  man." 

"I  call  that  stealing,"  said  Victoria  coldly. 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  like,"  snarled  Lizzie. 
"Everything's  stealing.  What's  business?  getting  a  quid 
for  what  costs  you  a  tanner.  I'm  putting  a  bit  extra  on 
my  wages." 

Victoria  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  might  have 
argued  with  Lizzie  as  she  had  once  argued  with  Gertie, 
but  the  vague  truth  that  lurked  in  Lizzie's  economics  had 
deprived  her  of  argument.  Could  theft  sometimes  be 
something  else  than  theft?  Were  all  things  theft?  And 
above  all,  did  the  acceptance  of  a  woman's  hand  as  bait 
justify  the  hooking  of  a  sixpence? 

As  Victoria  left  for  home  that  night  she  felt  restless. 
She  could  not  go  to  bed  so  soon.  She  walked  through 
the  silent  city  lanes;  meeting  nothing,  save  now  and  then 
a  cat  on  the  prowl,  or  a  policeman  trying  doors  and  flash- 
ing his  bull's  eye  through  the  gratings  of  banks.  The 
crossing  at  Mansion  House  was  still  busy  with  the  pro- 
cession of  omnibuses  converging  at  the  feet  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington.  Drays,  too  heavily  loaded,  rumbled  slowly 
past  towards  Liverpool  Street.  She  turned  northwards, 
walked  quickly  through  the  desert.  At  Liverpool  Street 
station  she  stopped  in  the  blaze  of  light.  A  few  doors 
away  stood  a  shouting  butcher  praying  the  passers-by  to 
buy  his  pretty  meat.  Further:  a  fishmonger's  stall,  an 
array  of  glistening  black  shapes  on  white  marble,  a  tobac- 
conist, a  jeweller — all  aglow  with  coruscating  light.  And 
over  all,  the  blazing  light  of  arc  lamps,  under  which  an 


146  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

unending  stream  of  motor  cabs,  lorries,  omnibuses  passed 
in  kaleidoscopic  colours.  In  the  full  glare  of  a  lamp  post 
stood  a  woman,  her  feet  in  the  gutter.  She  was  short, 
stunted,  dirty  and  thin  of  face  and  body.  Round  her 
wretched  frame  a  filthy  black  coat  was  tightly  buttoned; 
her  muddy  skirt  seemed  almost  falling  from  her  shrunken 
hips.  Crushed  on  her  sallow  face,  hiding  all  but  a  few 
wisps  of  hair,  was  a  battered  black  straw  hat.  With  one 
arm  she  carried  a  child,  thin  of  face,  too,  and  golden- 
haired.  On  its  upper  lip  a  crusted  sore  gleamed  red  and 
brown.  In  her  other  hand  she  held  out  a  tin  lid,  in  which 
were  five  boxes  of  matches. 

Victoria  looked  at  the  silent  watcher  and  passed  on. 
A  few  minutes  later  she  remembered  her  and  a  fearful 
flood  of  insight  rushed  upon  her.  The  child?  Then  this, 
this  creature  had  known  love?  A  man  had  kissed  *those 
shrivelled  lips.  Something  like  a  thrill  of  disgust  ran 
through  her.  That  such  things  as  these  could  love  and 
mate  and  bear  children  was  unspeakable;  the  very  touch 
of  them  was  loathsome,  their  love  akin  to  unnatural  vice. 

As  she  walked  further  into  Shoreditch  the  impression  of 
horror  grew  on  her.  It  was  not  that  the  lanes  and  little 
streets  abutting  into  the  High  Street  were  full  of  terrors 
when  pitch  dark,  or  more  sinister  still  in  the  pale  yellow 
light  of  a  single  gas  lamp;  the  High  Street  itself,  filled 
with  men  and  women,  most  of  them  shabby,  some  loudly 
dressed  in  crude  colours,  shouting,  laughing,  jostling  one 
another  off  the  foot-path  was  more  terrible,  for  its  joy  of 
life  was  brutal  as  the  joy  of  the  pugilist  who  feels  his 
opponent's  teeth  crunch  under  his  fist. 

At  a  corner,  near  a  public  house  blazing  with  lights,  a 
small  crowd  watched  two  women  who  were  about  to  fight. 
They  had  not  come  to  blows  yet;  their  duel  was  purely 
Homeric.  Victoria  listened  with  greedy  horror  to  the  ter- 
rible recurrence  of  half  a  dozen  words. 

A  child  squirmed  through  the  crowd,  crying,  and  caught 
one  of  the  fighters  by  her  skirt. 

"Leave  go  ...  I'll  rive  the  guts  out  o'  yer." 

With  a  swing  of  the  body  the  woman  sent  the  child 
flying  into  the  gutter.  Victoria  hurried  from  the  spot. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  147 

She  made  towards  the  West  now,  between  the  gin  shops, 
the  barrows  under  their  blazing  naphtha  lamps.  She  was 
afraid,  horribly  afraid. 

Sitting  alone  in  her  attic,  her  hands  crossed  before  her, 
questions  intruded  upon  her.  Why  all  this  pain,  this  vio- 
lence, by  the  side  of  life's  graces?  Could  it  be  that  one 
went  with  the  other,  indissolubly?  And  could  it  be  altered 
before  it  was  too  late,  before  the  earth  was  flooded,  over- 
whelmed with  pain? 

She  slipped  into  bed  and  drew  the  horsecloth  over  her 
ears.  The  world  was  best  shut  out. 

CHAPTER  XXII 

THOMAS  FARWELL  collected  three  volumes  from  his 
desk,  two  pamphlets  and  a  banana.  It  was  six  o'clock  and, 
the  partners  having  left,  he  was  his  own  master  half  an 
hour  earlier  than  usual. 

"You  off?"  said  the  junior  from  the  other  end  of  the 
desk. 

"Yes.    Half  an  hour  to  the  good." 

"What's  the  good  of  half  an  hour?"  said  the  youth 
superciliously. 

"No  good  unless  you  think  it  is,  like  everything  else," 
said  Farwell.  "Besides,  I  may  be  run  over  by  half-past 
six." 

"Cheerful  as  ever,"  remarked  the  junior,  bending  his 
head  down  to  the  petty  cash  balance. 

Farwell  took  no  notice  of  him.  Ten  times  a  day  he 
cursed  himself  for  wasting  words  upon  this  troglodyte. 
He  was  a  youth  long  as  a  day's  starvation,  with  a  bul- 
bous forehead,  stooping  narrow  shoulders  and  narrow  lips; 
his  shape  resembled  that  of  an  old  potato.  He  peered 
through  his  glasses  with  watery  eyes  hardly  darker  than 
his  grey  face. 

"Good  night,"  said  Farwell  curtly. 

"Cheer,  oh!"  said  the  junior. 

Farwell  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  He  felt  inclined 
to  skip  down  the  stairs,  not  that  anything  particularly 
pleasant  had  happened  but  because  the  bells  of  St.  Bo- 


148  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

tolph's  were  pealing  out  a  chime  of  freedom.  It  was  six. 
He  had  nothing  to  do.  The  best  thing  was  to  go  to 
Moorgate  Street  and  take  the  books  to  Victoria.  On  sec- 
ond thoughts,  no,  he  would  wait.  Six  o'clock  might  still 
be  a  busy  time. 

Farwell  walked  down  the  narrow  lane  from  Bishops- 
gate  into  St.  Botolph's  churchyard.  It  was  a  dank  and 
dreary  evening,  dark  already.  The  wind  swept  over  the 
paths  in  little  whirlwinds.  Dejected  sparrows  sought 
scraps  of  food  among  the  ancient  graves  where  office  boys 
munch  buns  and  read  of  wood-carving  and  desperate  ad- 
venture. He  sat  down  on  a  seat  by  the  side  of  a  shape 
that  slept,  and  opened  one  of  the  books,  though  it  was  too 
dark  to  read.  The  shape  lifted  an  eyelid  and  looked  at 
him. 

Farwell  turned  over  the  pages  listlessly.  It  was  a  his- 
tory of  revolutionists.  For  some  reason  he  hated  them 
to-day,  all  of  them.  Jack  Cade  was  a  boor,  Cromwell  a 
tartuffe,  Bolivar  a  politician,  Mazzini  a  theorist.  It  would 
bore  Victoria. 

Farwell  brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk.  He  was  think- 
ing of  Victoria  too  often.  As  he  was  a  man  who  faced 
facts  he  told  himself  quite  plainly  that  he  did  not  intend 
to  fall  in  love  with  her.  He  did  not  feel  capable  of  love; 
he  hated  most  people,  but  did  not  believe  that  a  good 
hater  was  a  good  lover. 

"Clever,  of  course,"  he  muttered,  "but  no  woman  is 
everlastingly  clever.  I  won't  risk  finding  her  out." 

The  shape  at  his  side  moved.  It  was  an  old  man,  filthy, 
clad  in  blackened  rags,  with  a  matted  beard.  Farwell 
glanced  at  him  and  turned  away. 

"I'd  have  you  poisoned  if  I  could,"  he  thought.  Then 
he  returned  to  Victoria.  Was  she  worth  educating?  And 
supposing  she  was  educated,  what  then?  She  would  be- 
come discontented,  instead  of  brutalised.  The  latter  was 
the  happier  state.  Or  she  would  fall  in  love  with  him, 
when  he  would  give  her  short  shrift.  What  a  pity.  A 
tiny  wave  of  sentiment  flowed  into  FarwelPs  soul. 

"Clever,  clever,"  he  thought,  "a  little  house,  babies, 
roses,  a  fox  terrier." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  149 

"Gov'nor,"  croaked  a  voice  beside  him. 

Farwell  turned  quickly.  The  shape  was  alive,  then, 
curse  it. 

"Well,  what  d'you  want?" 

"Give  us  a  copper,  gov'nor,  I'm  an  old  man,  can't  work. 
S'elp  me,  Gawd,  gov'nor,  'aven't  'ad  a  bite.  .  .  ." 

"That'll  do,  you  fool,"  snarled  Farwell,  "why  the  hell 
don't  you  go  in  and  get  it  in  gaol?" 

"Yer  don't  mean  that,  gov'nor,  do  yer?"  whined  the  old 
man,  "I  always  kep'  myself  respectable;  'ere,  look  at  these 
'ere  testimonials,  gov'nor,  .  .  ."  He  drew  from  his  coat 
a  disgusting  object,  a  bundle  of  papers  tied  together  with 
string. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  them,"  said  Farwell.  "I  wouldn't 
employ  you  if  I  could.  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  work- 
house?" 

The  old  man  almost  bridled. 

"Why?  Because  you're  a  stuck  up.  D'you  hear? 
You're  proud  of  being  poor.  That's  about  as  vulgar  as 
bragging  because  you're  rich.  If  you  and  all  the  likes 
of  you  went  into  the  House,  you'd  reform  the  system  in 
a  week.  Understand?" 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  speaker,  uncom- 
prehending. 

"Better  still,  go  and  throw  any  bit  of  dirt  you  pick  up 
at  a  policeman,"  continued  Fawell.  "See  he  gets  it  in  the 
mouth.  You  get  locked  up.  Suppose  a  million  of  the  likes 
of  you  do  the  same,  what  d'you  think  happens?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Well,  your  penal  system  is  bust.  If  you  offend  the 
law  you're  a  criminal.  But  what's  the  law — the  opinion 
of  the  majority.  If  the  majority  goes  against  the  law, 
then  the  minority  becomes  criminal.  The  world's  upside 
down."  Farwell  smiled.  "The  world's  upside  down,"  he 
said  softly,  licking  his  lips. 

"Give  us  a  copper  for  a  bed,  guv'nor,"  said  the  old 
man  dully. 

"What's  the  good  of  a  bed  to  you?"  exploded  Farwell. 
"Why  don't  you  have  a  drink?" 


ISO  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"I'm  a  teetotaller,  guv'nor;  always  kep'  myself  respec- 
table." 

"Respectable!  You're  earning  the  wages  of  respecta- 
bility, that  is  death,"  said  Farwell  with  a  wolfish  laugh. 
"Why,  man,  can't  you  see  you're  on  the  wrong  tack? 
We  don't  want  any  more  of  you  respectables.  We  want 
pirates,  vampires.  We  want  all  this  society  of  yours 
rotted  by  internal  canker,  so  that  we  can  build  a  new 
one.  But  we  must  rot  it  first.  We  aren't  going  to  work 
on  a  sow's  ear." 

"Give  us  a  copper,  guv'nor,"  moaned  the  old  man. 

Farwell  took  out  sixpence  and  laid  it  on  the  seat.  "Now 
then,"  he  said,  "you  can  have  this  if  you'll  swear  to  blow 
it  in  drink." 

"I  will,  s'elp  me  Gawd,"  said  the  old  man  eagerly. 

Farwell  pushed  the  coin  towards  him. 

"Take  it,  teetotaller,"  he  sneered,  "your  respectable 
system  of  bribery  has  bought  you  for  sixpence.  Now  let 
me  see  you  go  into  that  pub." 

The  old  man  clutched  the  sixpence  and  staggered  to  his 
feet.  Farwell  watched  the  swing  doors  of  the  public  bar 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  close  behind  him.  Then  he  got 
up  and  walked  away;  it  was  about  time  to  go  to  Moor- 
gate  Street. 

As  he  entered  the  smoking-room,  Victoria  blushed.  The 
man  moved  her,  stimulated  her.  When  she  saw  him  she 
felt  like  a  body  meeting  a  soul.  He  sat  down  at  his 
usual  place.  Victoria  brought  him  his  tea,  and  laid  it 
before  him  without  a  word.  Nelly,  lolling  in  another 
corner,  kicked  the  ground,  looking  away  insolently  from 
the  elaborate  wink  of  one  of  the  scullions. 

"Here,  read  these,"  said  Farwell,  pushing  two  of  the 
books  across  the  table.  Victoria  picked  them  up. 

"Looking  Backwards?"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  don't  want  to 
do  that.  It's  forward  I  want  to  go." 

"A  laudable  sentiment,"  sneered  Farwell,  "the  theory 
of  every  Sunday  School  in  the  country,  and  the  practice 
of  none.  However,  you'll  find  it  fairly  soul-filling  as  an 
unintelligent  anticipation.  Personally  I  prefer  the  other. 
Demos  is  good  stuff,  for  Gassing  went  through  the  fire." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  151 

Victoria  quickly  walked  away.  Farwell  looked  sur- 
prised for  a  second,  then  saw  the  manageress  on  the 
stairs. 

"Faugh,"  he  muttered,  "if  the  world's  a  stage  I'm  play- 
ing the  part  of  a  low  intriguer." 

He  sipped  his  tea  meditatively.  In  a  few  minutes  Vic- 
toria returned. 

"Thank  you,"  she  whispered.  "It's  good  of  you. 
You're  teaching  me  to  live." 

Farwell  looked  at  her  critically. 

"I  don't  see  much  good  in  that,"  he  said,  "unless  you've 
got  something  to  live  for.  One  of  our  philosophers  says 
you  live  either  for  experience  or  the  race.  I  recommend 
the  former  to  myself,  and  to  you  nothing." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  live  for  anything?"  she  asked. 

"Because  life's  too  dear.  And  its  pleasures  are  not 
white  but  piebald." 

"I  understand,"  said  Victoria,  "but  I  must  live." 

"Je  n'en  vois  pas  la  necessite,"  quoted  Farwell,  smiling. 
"Never  mind  what  that  means,"  he  added,  "I'm  only  a 
pessimist." 

The  next  few  weeks  seemed  to  create  in  Victoria  a  new 
personality.  Her  reading  was  so  carefully  selected  that 
every  line  told.  Farwell  knew  the  hundred  best  books  for 
a  working  girl;  he  had  a  large  library  composed  mostly 
of  battered  copies  squeezed  out  of  his  daily  bread.  Vic- 
toria's was  the  appetite  of  a  gorgon.  In  another  month 
she  had  absorbed  Odd  Women,  An  Enemy  of  the  People, 
The  Doll's  House,  Alton  Locke,  and  a  translation  of 
Germinal.  Every  night  she  read  with  an  intensity  which 
made  her  forget  that  March  chilled  her  to  the  bone;  por- 
ing over  the  book,  her  eyes  a  few  inches  from  the  candle, 
she  soaked  in  rebellion.  When  the  cold  nipped  too  close 
into  her  she  would  get  up  and  wrap  herself  in  the  horse- 
cloth and  read  with  savage  application,  rushing  to  the 
core  of  the  thought.  She  was  no  student,  so  she  would 
skip  a  hard  word.  Besides,  in  those  moods,  when  the 
spirit  bounds  in  the  body  like  a  caged  bird,  words  are  felt, 
not  understood. 

Betty  was  still  hovering  round  her,  a  gentle  presence. 


1 52  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  knew  what  was  going  on  and  was  frightened.  A  new 
Victoria  was  rising  before  her,  a  woman  very  charming 
still,  but  extraordinary,  mcotnprehensible.  Often  Victoria 
would  snub  her  savagely,  then  take  her  hand  as  they  stood 
together  at  the  counter  bawling  for  food  and  drink.  And 
as  Victoria  grew  hard  and  strong  Betty  worshipped  her 
more  as  she  would  have  worshipped  a  strong  man. 

Yet  Betty  was  not  happy.  Victoria  lived  now  hi  a  state 
of  excitement  and  hunger  for  solitude.  She  took  no  in- 
terest in  tilings  that  Betty  could  understand.  Their  Sun- 
day walks  had  .been  ruthlessly  cut  now  and  then,  for  the 
fury  was  upon  Victoria  when  eating  the  fruits  of  the  tree. 
When  they  were  *together  now  Victoria  was  preoccupied; 
she  no  longer  listened  to  the  dub  gossip,  nor  did  she  ask 
to  be  told  once  more  the  story  of  Betty's  early  days. 

'•Do  you  know  you're  sweated?"  she  said  suddenly  one 
day. 

"Sweated?"  she  said  "I  thought  only  people  in  the 
East 


"The  world's  one  big  East  End."  snapped  Victoria. 

Betty  shivered.    Farwefl  might  have  said  that. 

"You're  sweated  if  you  get  two  pounds  a  week,  con- 
tinued Victoria.  "You're  sweated  when  you  buy  a  loaf, 
sweated  when  you  ride  hi  a  bus,  sweated  when  they  cre- 
mate you." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Betty. 

"All   profits  are  sweated,"   quoted   Victoria   from  a 


"But  people  must  make  profits,"  protested  Betty. 

asked  Victoria. 

"How  are  people  to  live  unless  they  make  profits?"  said 
Betty.  "Aren't  our  wages  pror. 

Victoria  was  nonplussed  for  a  moment  and  became  in- 
volved. "No,  our  wages  are  only  wages;  profit  is  the 
excess  over  our  wages." 

•I  don't  understand,"  said  Betty. 

er  mind,"  said  Victoria,  "IH  ask  Mr.  Farwefl; 
hell  make  it  clear." 

Betty  shot  a  dark  blue  glance  at  her. 

-2id  softlv.   "I  think   Mr.   Farwell  .  .  ." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  153 

Then  she  changed  her  mind.  "I  can't,  I  can't,"  she 
thought.  She  crushed  the  jealous  words  down  and 
plunged. 

"Vic,  darling,"  she  faltered,  "I'm  afraid  you're  not 
well.  No,  and  not  happy.  I've  been  thinking  of  some- 
thing; why  shouldn't  I  leave  the  club  and  come  and  live 
with  you?" 

Victoria  looked  at  her  critically  for  a  moment.  She 
thought  of  her  independence,  of  this  affection  hovering 
round  her,  sweet,  dangerously  clinging.  But  Betty's  blue 
eyes  were  wet. 

"You're  too  good  a  pal  for  me,  Betty,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "I'd  make  you  miserable." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Betty  impulsively.  "I'd  love  it,  Vic, 
dear,  and  you  would  go  on  reading  and  do  what  you  like. 
Only  let  me  be  with  you." 

Victoria's  hand  tightened  on  her  friend's  arm. 

"Let  me  think,  Betty  dear,"  she  said. 

Ten  days  later,  Betty  having  won  her  point,  the  great 
move  was  to  take  place  at  seven  o'clock.  It  certainly 
lacked  solemnity.  For  three  days  preceding  the  great 
change  Betty  had  hurried  away  from  the  P.R.R.  on  the 
stroke  of  nine,  quickly  kissing  Victoria  and  saying  she 
couldn't  wait  as  she  must  pack.  Clearly  her  wardrobe 
could  not  be  disposed  of  in  a  twinkling.  Yet,  on  moving 
day,  at  seven  o'clock  sharp  (the  carrier  having  been 
thoughtfully  commanded  to  deliver  at  five)  a  tin  trunk 
kept  together  by  a  rope,  a  tiny  bath  muzzled  with  a  cur- 
tain, and  a  hat  box  loudly  advertising  somebody's  tea, 
were  dumped  on  the  doorstep.  The  cart  drove  off,  leaving 
the  two  girls  to  make  terms  with  a  loafer.  The  latter 
compromised  for  fourpence,  slammed  their  door  behind 
him  and  hurried  down  the  creaking  stairs.  Betty  threw 
herself  into  Victoria's  arms. 

Those  first  days  were  sweet.  Betty  rejoiced  like  a 
lover  in  possession  of  a  long-desired  mistress;  stripping 
off  her  blouse  and  looking  very  pretty,  showing  her  white 
neck  and  slim  arms,  she  strutted  about  the  attic  with  a 
hammer  in  her  hand  and  her  mouth  full  of  nails.  It  took 
an  evening  to  hang  the  curtain  which  had  muzzled  the 


154  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

bath;  Betty's  art  treasures,  an  oleograph  of  "Bubbles" 
and  another  of  "I'se  Biggest,"  were  cunningly  hung  by 
Victoria  so  that  she  could  not  see  them  on  waking  up. 

Betty  was  active  now  as  a  will  o'  the  wisp.  She  in- 
vented little  feasts,  expensive  Sunday  suppers  of  fried 
fish  and  chips,  produced  a  basket  of  oranges  at  three  a 
penny;  thanks  to  her  there  was  now  milk  with  the  tea. 
In  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  Victoria  heard  her  murmur 
something  about  keeping  a  cat.  In  fact  the  only  thing 
that  marred  her  life  at  all  was  Victoria's  absorption  in  her 
reading.  Often  Betty  would  go  to  bed  and  stay  awake, 
watching  Victoria  at  the  table,  her  fingers  ravelling  her 
hair,  reading  with  an  intentness  that  frightened  her.  She 
would  watch  Victoria  and  see  her  face  grow  paler,  except 
at  the  cheeks  where  a  flush  would  rise.  A  wild  look  would 
come  into  her  eyes.  Sometimes  she  would  get  up  sud- 
denly and,  thrusting  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  walk  up  and 
down,  muttering  things  Betty  could  not  understand. 

One  night  Betty  woke  up  suddenly,  and  saw  Victoria 
standing  in  the  moonlight  clad  only  in  her  nightgown. 
Words  were  surging  from  her  lips. 

"It's  no  good.  ...  I  can't  go  on.  ...  I  can't  go  on 
until  I  die  or  somebody  marries  me.  ...  I  won't  marry: 
I  won't  do  it.  ...  Why  should  I  sell  myself?  ...  at 
any  rate  why  should  I  sell  myself  cheaply?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Betty  sat  up  and  looked  at  her 
friend's  wild  face. 

"What's  it  all  mean  after  all?  I'm  only  being  used. 
Sucked  dry  like  an  orange.  By  and  by  they'll  throw  the 
peel  away.  Talk  of  brotherhood !  .  .  .  It's  war,  war  .  .  . 
It's  climbing  and  fighting  to  get  on  top  .  .  .  like  crabs 
in  a  bucket,  like  crabs  .  .  ." 

"Vic,"  screamed  Betty. 

Victoria  started  like  a  somnambulist  aroused  and  looked 
at  her  vaguely. 

"Come  back  to  bed  at  once,"  cried  Betty  with  inspired 
firmness.  Victoria  obeyed.  Betty  drew  her  down  beside 
her  under  the  horsecloth  and  threw  her  arms  round  her; 
Victoria's  body  was  cold  as  ice.  Suddenly  she  burst  into 
tears;  and  Betty,  torn  as  if  she  saw  a  strong  man  weep, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  155 

wept,  too.     Closely  locked  in  one  another's  arms  they 
sobbed  themselves  to  sleep. 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

EVERY  day  now  Victoria's  brain  grew  clearer  and  her 
body  weaker.  A  sullen  spirit  of  revolt  blended  with  hor- 
rible depression  was  upon  her,  but  she  was  getting  thinner, 
paler;  dark  rings  were  forming  round  her  eyes.  She  knew 
pain  now;  perpetual  weariness,  twitchings  in  the  ankles, 
stabs  just  above  the  knee.  In  horrible  listlessness  she 
dragged  her  weary  feet  over  the  tiled  floor,  responding  to 
commands  like  the  old  cab  horse  which  can  hardly  feel  the 
whip.  In  this  mood,  growing  churlish,  she  repulsed  Betty, 
avoided  Farwell  and  tried  to  seclude  herself.  She  no 
longer  walked  Holborn  or  the  Strand  where  life  went  by, 
but  sought  the  mean  and  silent  streets,  where  none  could 
see  her  shamble  or  where  none  would  care. 

One  night,  when  she  had  left  at  six,  she  painfully 
crawled  home  and  up  into  the  attic.  At  half-past  nine 
the  door  opened  and  Betty  came  in;  the  room  was  in 
darkness,  but  something  oppressed  her;  she  went  to  the 
mantelpiece  to  look  for  the  matches,  her  fingers  trembling. 
For  an  eternity  she  seemed  to  fumble,  the  oppression  grow- 
ing; she  felt  that  Victoria  was  in  the  room,  and  could  only 
hope  that  she  was  asleep.  With  a  great  effort  of  her  will 
she  lit  the  candle  before  turning  round.  Then  she  gave 
a  short,  sharp  scream. 

Victoria  was  lying  across  the  bed  dressed  in  her  bodice 
and  petticoat.  She  had  tucked  this  up  to  her  knees  and 
taken  off  her  stockings;  her  legs  hung  dead  white  over  the 
edge.  At  her  feet  was  the  tin  bath  full  of  water.  Betty 
ran  to  the  bed,  choking  almost,  and  clasped  her  friend 
round  the  neck.  It  was  some  seconds  before  she  thought 
of  wetting  her  face.  After  some  minutes  Victoria  returned 
to  consciousness  and  opened  her  eyes;  she  groaned  slightly 
as  Betty  lifted  up  her  legs  and  straightened  her  on  the 
bed. 

It  was  then  that  Betty  noticed  the  singular  appearance 
of  Victoria's  legs.  They  were  covered  with  a  network  of 


156  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

veins,  some  narrow  and  pale  blue  in  colour,  others  darker, 
protruding  and  swollen;  on  the  left  calf  one  of  the  veins 
stood  out  like  a  rope.  The  unaccustomed  sight  filled  her 
with  the  horror  bred  of  a  mysterious  disease.  She  was 
delicate,  but  had  never  been  seriously  ill;  this  sight  filled 
her  with  physical  repulsion.  For  her  the  ugliness  of  it 
meant  foulness.  For  a  moment  she  almost  hated  Victoria, 
but  the  sight  of  the  tin  bath  full  of  water  cut  her  to  the 
heart;  it  told  her  that  Victoria,  maddened  b}^  mysterious 
pain,  had  tried  to  assuage  it  by  battling  her  legs  in  the 
cold  water. 

Little  by  little  Victoria  came  round;  she  smiled  at 
Betty. 

"Did  I  faint,  Betty  dear?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear.    Are  you  better  now?" 

"Yes,  I'm  better;  it  doesn't  hurt  now." 

Betty  could  not  repress  a  question. 

"Vic,"  she  said,  "what  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Victoria  fearfully,  then  more  cheer- 
fully, 

"I'm  tired,  I  suppose.    I  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow." 

Then  Betty  refused  to  let  her  talk  any  more,  and  soon 
Victoria  slept  by  her  side  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 

The  next  morning  Victoria  insisted  upon  going  to  the 
P.R.R.  in  spite  of  Betty  suggesting  a  doctor. 

"Can't  risk  losing  my  job,"  she  said,  laughing.  "Be- 
sides, it  doesn't  hurt  at  all  now.  Look." 

Victoria  lifted  up  her  nightshirt.  Her  calves  were  again 
perfectly  white  and  smooth;  the  thin  network  of  veins 
had  sunk  in  again  and  showed  blue  under  the  skin.  Alone 
one  vein  on  the  left  leg  seemed  dark  and  angry.  Victoria 
felt  so  well,  however,  that  she  agreed  to  meet  Farwell  at 
a  quarter  past  nine.  This  was  their  second  expedition, 
and  the  idea  of  it  was  a  stimulant.  He  went  with  her  up 
to  Finsbury  Pavement  and  stopped  at  a  small  Italian 
restaurant. 

"Come  in  here  and  have  some  coffee,"  he  said,  "they 
have  waiters  here;  that'll  be  a  change." 

Victoria  followed  him  in.  They  sat  at  a  marble-topped 
table,  flooded  with  light  by  incandescent  gas.  In  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  157 

glare  the  waiters  seemed  blacker,  smaller  and  more  stunted 
than  by  the  light  of  day.  Their  faces  were  pallid,  with  a 
touch  of  green:  their  hair  and  moustaches  were  almost 
blue  black.  Their  energy  was  that  of  automata.  Victoria 
looked  at  them,  melting  with  pity. 

"There's  a  life  for  you,"  said  Farwell,  interpreting  her 
look.  "Sixteen  hours'  work  a  day  in  an  atmosphere  of 
stale  food.  For  meals,  plate  scourings.  For  sleep  and 
time  to  get  to  it,  eight  hours.  For  living,  the  rest  of  the 
day." 

"It's  awful,  awful,"  said  Victoria.  "They  might  as  well 
be  dead." 

"They  will  be  soon,"  said  Farwell,  "but  what  does  that 
matter?  There  are  plenty  of  waiters.  In  the  shadow  of 
the  olive  groves  to-night  in  far  off  Calabria,  at  the  base 
of  the  vine-clad  hills,  couples  are  walking  hand  in  hand, 
with  passion  flashing  in  their  eyes.  Brown  peasant  boys 
are  clasping  to  their  breast  young  girls  with  dark  hair, 
white  teeth,  red  lips,  hearts  that  beat  and  quiver  with 
ecstasy.  They  tell  a  tale  of  love  and  hope.  So  we  shall 
not  be  short  of  waiters." 

"Why  do  you  -sneer  at  everything,  Mr.  Farwell?"  said 
Victoria.  "Can't  you  see  anything  in  life  to  make  it  worth 
v.hile?" 

"No,  I  cannot  say  I  do.  The  pursuit  of  a  living  debars 
me  from  the  enjoyments  that  make  living  worth  while. 
But  never  mind  me:  I  am  over  without  having  bloomed. 
I  brought  you  here  to  talk  of  you,  not  of  me." 

"Of  me,  Mr.  Farwell?"  asked  Victoria.  "What  do  you 
want  to  know?" 

Fanvell  leaned  over  the  table,  toyed  with  the  sugar  and 
helped  himself  to  a  piece.  Then,  without  looking  at  her: 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Victoria?"  he  asked. 

"Matter  with  me?  What  do  you  mean?"  said  Victoria, 
too  disturbed  to  notice  the  use  of  her  Christian  name. 

The  man  scrutinised  her  carefully.  "You're  ill,"  he 
said.  "Don't  protest.  You're  thin;  there  are  purple 
pockets  under  your  eyes;  your  underlip  is  twisted  with 
pain,  and  you  limp." 

Victoria  felt  a  spasm  of  anger.    There  was  still  in  her 


158  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  ghost  of  vanity.  But  she  looked  at  Farwell  before 
answering;  there  was  gentleness  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,"  she  said  slowly,  "if  you  must  know,  perhaps 
there  is  something  wrong.  Pains." 

"Where?"  he  asked. 

"In  the  legs,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 

"Ah,  swellings?" 

Victoria  bridled  a  little.  This  man  was  laying  bare 
something,  tearing  at  a  secret. 

"Are  you  a  doctor,  Mr.  Farwell?"  she  asked  coldly. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  roughly,  "it  doesn't  need 
much  learning  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  a  girl  who 
stands  for  eleven  hours  a  day.  Are  the  veins  of  your  legs 
swollen?" 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria  with  an  effort.  She  was  fright- 
ened; she  forgot  to  resent  this  wrenching  at  the  privacy 
of  her  body. 

"Ah;  when  do  they  hurt?" 

"At  night.    They're  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"You've  got  varicose  veins,  Victoria.  You  must  give 
up  your  job." 

"I  can't,"  whispered  the  girl  hoarsely.  "I've  got  noth- 
ing else." 

"Exactly.  Either  you  go  on  and  are  a  cripple  for  life 
or  you  stop  and  starve.  Yours  is  a  disease  of  occupation, 
purely  a  natural  consequence  of  your  work.  Perfectly 
normal,  perfectly.  It  is  undesirable  to  encourage  laziness; 
there  are  girls  starving  to-day  for  lack  of  work,  but  it 
would  never  do  to  reduce  your  hours  to  eight.  It  would 
interfere  with  the  P.R.R.  dividends." 

Victoria  looked  at  him  without  feeling. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"Go  to  a  hospital,"  said  Farwell.  "These  institutions 
are  run  by  the  wealthy  who  pay  two  guineas  a  year  ran- 
som for  a  thousand  pounds  of  profits  and  get  in  the  bar- 
gain a  fine  sense  of  civic  duty  done.  No  doubt  the  direc- 
tors of  the  P.R.R.  contribute  most  generously." 

"I  can't  give  up  my  job,"  said  Victoria  dully. 

"Perhaps  they'll  give  you  a  stocking,"  said  Farwell,  "or 
sell  it  you,  letting  you  pay  in  instalments  so  that  you  be 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  159 

not  pauperised.  This  is  called  training  in  responsibility, 
also  self-help." 

Victoria  got  up.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Farwell 
saw  her  home  and  made  her  promise  to  apply  for  leave  to 
see  the  doctor.  As  the  door  closed  behind  her  he  stood 
still  for  some  minutes  on  the  doorstep,  filling  his  pipe. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said  at  length,  "the  Government  might 
think  of  that  lethal  chamber — but  no,  that  would  never 
do,  it  would  deplete  the  labour  market  and  hamper  the 
commercial  development  of  the  Empire." 

He  walked  away,  a  crackling  little  laugh  floating  behind 
him.  The  faint  light  of  a  lamp  fell  on  his  bowed  head 
and  shoulders,  making  him  look  like  a  Titan  born  a 
dwarf. 

Two  days  later  Victoria  went  to  the  Carew.  She  had 
never  before  set  foot  in  a  hospital.  Such  intercourse  as 
she  had  had  with  doctors  was  figured  by  discreet  inter- 
views in  dark  studies  filled  with  unspeakably  ugly  and  re- 
assuringly solid  furniture.  Those  doctors  had  patted  her 
hand,  said  she  needed  a  little  change  or  may  be  a  tonic. 
At  the  Carew,  fed  as  it  is  by  the  misery  of  two  square 
miles  of  North  East  London,  the  revelation  of  pain  was 
dazzling,  apocalyptic.  The  sight  of  the  benches  crowded 
with  women  and  children — some  pale  as  corpses,  others 
flushed  with  fever,  some  with  faces  bandaged  or  disfig- 
ured by  sores — almost  made  her  sick.  They  were  packed 
in  serried  rows;  the  children  almost  all  cried  persistently, 
except  here  and  there  a  baby,  who  looked  with  frightful 
fixity  at  the  glazed  roof.  From  all  this  chattering  crowd 
of  the  condemned  rose  a  stench  of  iodoform,  perspiration, 
unwashed  bodies,  the  acrid  smell  of  poverty. 

The  little  red-haired  Scotch  doctor  dismissed  Victoria's 
case  in  less  than  one  minute. 

"Varicose  veins.  Always  wear  a  stocking.  Here's  your 
form.  Settle  terms  at  the  truss  office.  Don't  stand  on 
your  feet.  Oh,  what's  your  occupation?" 

"Waitress  at  the  P.R.R.,  sir." 

"Ah,  hum.    You  must  give  it  up." 

"I  can't,  sir." 

"It's  your  risk.    Come  again  in  a  month." 


160  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  pulled  up  her  stockings.  Walking  in  a  dream 
she  went  to  the  truss  office  where  a  man  measured  her 
calves.  She  felt  numb  and  indifferent  as  to  the  exposure 
of  her  body.  The  man  looked  enquiringly  at  the  left 
calf. 

"V.H.  for  the  left,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder  to  the 
clerk. 

At  twelve  o'clock  she  was  in  the  P.R.R.,  revived  by  the 
familiar  atmosphere.  She  even  rallied  one  of  the  old 
chess  players  on  a  stroke  of  ill-luck.  Towards  four  o'clock 
her  ankles  began  to  twitch. 

CHAPTER  XXIV 

THROUGH  all  these  anxious  times,  Betty  watched  over 
Victoria  with  the  devotion  that  is  born  of  love.  There  was 
in  the  girl  a  reserve  of  maternal  sweetness  equalled  only 
by  the  courage  she  showed  every  day.  Slim  and  delicate 
as  she  seemed,  there  was  in  Betty's  thin  body  a  strength 
all  nervous  but  enduring.  She  did  not  complain,  though 
driven  eleven  or  twelve  hours  a  day  by  the  eyes  of  the 
manageress;  those  eyes  were  sharp  as  a  goad,  but  she 
went  cheerfully. 

In  a  sense  Betty  was  happy.  The  work  did  not  weigh 
too  heavily  upon  her;  there  was  so  much  humility  in  her 
that  she  d'id  not  resent  the  roughness  of  her  companions. 
Nelly  could  snub  her,  trample  at  times  on  her  like  the 
cart  horse  she  was;  the  manageress,  too,  could  freeze  her 
with  a  look,  the  kitchen  staff  disregard  her  humble  re- 
quests for  teas  and  procured  for  her  the  savage  bullying  of 
the  customers,  yet  she  remained  placid  enough. 

"It's  a  hard  life,"  she  once  said  to  Victoria,  "but  I  sup- 
pose it's  got  to  be."  This  was  her  philosophy. 

"But  don't  you  want  to  get  out  of  it?"  cried  Victoria 
the  militant. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Betty.    "I  might  marry." 

"Marry,"  sniffed  Victoria.  "You  seem  to  think  mar- 
riage is  the  only  way  out  for  women." 

"Well,  isn't  it?"  asked  Betty.     "What  else  is  there?" 

And  for  the  life  of  her  Victoria  could  not  find  another 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  161 

occupation  for  'an  unskilled  girl.  Milliners,  dressmakers, 
clerks,  typists,  were  all  frightfully  underpaid  and  over- 
worked; true  there  were  women  doctors,  but  who  cared  to 
employ  them?  And  teachers,  but  they  earned  the  wages 
of  virtue's  neglect.  Besides,  it  was  too  late;  both  Vic- 
toria and  Betty  were  unskilled,  condemned  by  their  sex  to 
low  pay  and  hard  work. 

"It's  frightful,  frightful,"  cried  Victoria.  "The  only  use 
we  are  is  to  do  the  dirty  work.  Men  don't  char.  Of 
course  we  may  marry,  if  we  can,  to  any  of  those  gods  if 
they'll  share  with  us  their  thirty  bob  a  week.  Talk  of 
slaves!  They're  better  off  than  we." 

Betty  looked  upon  all  this  as  rather  wild,  as  a  conse- 
quence of  Victoria's  illness.  Her  view  was  that  it  didn't 
do  to  complain,  and  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  make 
the  best  of  it.  But  she  loved  Victoria,  and  it  was  almost  a 
voluptous  joy  for  her  to  help  her  friend  to  undress  every 
night,  to  tempt  her  with  little  offerings  of  fruit  and  flow- 
ers. When  they  woke  up,  Betty  would  draw  her  friend 
into  her  arms  and  cover  her  face  with  gentle  kisses. 

But  as  Victoria  grew  worse,  stiffer,  and  slower,  respond- 
ing ever  more  reluctantly  to  the  demands  made  upon  her 
all  day  at  the  P.R.H.,  Betty  was  conscious  of  horrible 
anxiety.  Sometimes  her  imagination  would  conjure  up  a 
Victoria  helpless,  wasted,  bedridden,  and  her  heart  seemed 
to  stop.  But  her  devotion  was  proof  against  egoism. 
Whatever  happened,  Victoria  should  not  starve  if  she  had 
to  pay  the  rent  and  feed  herself  on  nine  shillings  or  so  a 
week  until  she  was  well  again  and  beautiful  as  she  had 
been.  Her  anxiety  increasing,  she  mustered  up  courage 
to  interview  Farwell,  whom  she  hated  jealously.  He  had 
ruined  Victoria,  she  thought — made  her  wild,  discontented, 
rebellious  against  the  incurable.  Yet  he  knew  her,  and 
at  any  rate  she  must  talk  about  it  to  somebody.  So  she 
mustered  up  courage  to  -ask  him  to  meet  her  at  nine. 

"Well?"  said  Farwell.  He  did  not  like  Betty  much. 
He  included  her  among  the  poor  creatures,  the  rubble. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Farwell,  what's  going  to  happen  to  Victoria?" 
cried  Betty,  with  tears  in  her  voice.  Then  she  put  her 


1 62  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

hand  against  the  railings  of  Finsbury  Circus.  She  had 
prepared  a  dignified  little  speech,  and  her  suffering  had 
burst  from  her.  The  indignity  of  it. 

"Happen?  The  usual  thing  in  these  cases.  She'll  get 
worse;  the  veins  will  burst  and  she'll  be  crippled  for 
life." 

Betty  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  blazing  with  rage. 

"How  dare  you,  how  dare  you?"  she  growled. 

Farwell  laughed. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said  smoothly,  "it  needs  no 
doctor  to  tell  you  what  is  wanted.  Victoria  must  stop 
work,  lie  up,  be  well  fed,  live  in  the  country,  perhaps,  and 
her  spirits  must  be  raised.  To  this  effect  I  would  suggest 
a  pretty  house,  flowers,  books,  some  music,  say  a  hundred- 
guinea  grand  piano,  some  pretty  pictures.  So  that  she 
may  improve  in  health  it  is  desirable  that  she  should  have 
servants.  These  may  gain  varicose  veins  by  waiting  on 
her,  but  that  is  by  the  way." 

Betty  was  weeping  now.  Tear  after  tear  rolled  down 
her  cheeks. 

"But  all  this  costs  money,"  continued  Farwell,  "and, 
as  you  are  aware,  bread  is  very  dear  and  flesh  and  blood 
very  cheap.  Humanity  finds  the  extraction  of  gold  a  toil- 
some process,  whilst  the  production  of  children  is  a  nor- 
mal recreation  which  eclipses  even  the  charms  of  alcohol. 
There,  my  child,  you  have  the  problem;  and  there  is  only 
one  radical  solution  to  it." 

Betty  looked  at  him,  intuitively  guessing  the  horrible 
suggestion. 

"The  solution,"  said  Farwell,  "is  to  complain  to  the 
doctor  of  insomnia,  get  him  to  prescribe  laudanum  and 
sink  your  capital  in  the  purchase  of  half  a  pint.  One's 
last  investment  is  generally  one's  best." 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it,"  wailed  Betty. 
"She's  so  beautiful,  so  clever." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Farwell  in  his  dreamy  manner,  "but 
then  you  see  when  a  woman  doesn't  marry.  .  .  ."  He 
broke  off,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  grey  pavement.  "The 
time  will  come,  Betty,  when  the  earth  will  be  not  only 
our  eternal  bed,  but  the  fairy  land  where  joyful  flowers 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  163 

will  grow.  Ah !  it  will  be  joyful,  joyful,  this  crop  of  flow- 
ers born  from  seas  of  blood." 

"But,  now,  now,  what  can  we  do  with  her?"  cried 
Betty. 

"I  have  no  other  suggestion  if  she  will  not  fight," 
growled  Farwell  in  his  old  manner.  "She  must  sink  or 
swim.  If  she  sinks  she's  to  blame,  I  suppose.  In  a  world 
of  pirates  and  cut-throats  she  will  have  elected  to  be  a 
saint,  'and  the  martyr's  crown  will  be  hers.  If  suicide  is 
not  to  her  taste,  I  would  recommend  her  to  resort  to  what 
is  called  criminal  practices.  Being  ill,  she  has  magnificent 
advantages  if  she  wishes  to  start  business  as  a  begging-let- 
ter writer;  burglary  is  not  suitable  for  women,  but  there 
are  splendid  openings  for  confidence  tricksters  and  shop- 
lifting would  be  a  fine  profession  if  it  were  not  over- 
crowded by  the  upper  middle  classes." 

Betty  dabbed  her  eyes  vigorously.  Her  mouth  tight- 
ened. She  looked  despairingly  at  the  desolate  half  circle 
of  London  Wall  Buildings  and  Salisbury  House.  Then 
she  gave  Farwell  her  hand  for  a  moment  and  hurriedly 
walked  away.  As  she  entered  the  attic  the  candle  was 
still  burning.  Victoria  was  in  bed  and  had  forgotten  it; 
she  had  already  fallen  into  stertorous  sleep. 

Next  morning  Victoria  got  up  and  dressed  silently.  She 
did  not  seem  any  worse;  and  with  this  Betty  was  content, 
though  she  only  got  short  answers  to  her  questions.  All 
that  day  Victoria  seemed  well  enough.  She  walked  spring- 
ily;  at  times  she  exchanged  a  quick  joke  with  a  customer. 
She  laughed  even  when  a  young  man,  carried  away  for  a 
moment  beyond  the  spirit  of  food  which  reigned  supreme 
in  the  P.R.R.,  touched  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  Victoria  felt  creeping  over  her  the 
desperate  weariness  of  the  hour. 

At  a  quarter  to  six  she  made  up  her  checks.  There  was 
a  shortfall  of  one  and  a  penny. 

"How  do  you  account  for  it?"  asked  the  manageress. 

"Sure  I  don't  know,  Miss,"  said  Victoria  helplessly.  "I 
always  give  checks.  Somebody  must  have  slipped  out 
without  paying." 

"Possibly."     The  manageress  grew  more  tense  faced 


1 64  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

than  ever.  Her  bust  expanded.  "I  don't  care.  Of  course, 
you  know  the  rule.  You  pay  half  and  the  desk  pays  half." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Miss,"  said  Victoria  miserably.  Six- 
pence halfpenny  was  a  serious  loss. 

"No  more  could  I.  I  think  I  can  tell  you  how  it  hap- 
pened, though,"  said  the  manageress  with  a  vague  smile. 
"I'm  an  old  hand.  A  customer  of  yours  had  a  tuck  out 
for  one  and  a  penny.  You  gave  him  a  check.  Look  at 
the  foil  and  you'll  see." 

"Yes,  Miss,  here  it  is,"  said  Victoria  anxiously. 

"Very  well.  Then  he  went  upstairs  on  the  Q.T.  and 
had  a  cup  of  coffee.  Follow!" 

"Yes,  Miss." 

"One  of  the  girls  gave  him  a  twopenny  check.  Then 
he  went  out  'and  handed  in  the  twopenny  check.  He  kept 
the  other  one  in  his  pocket." 

"Oh,  Miss  .  .  .  it's  stealing,"  Victoria  gasped. 

"It  is.    But  there  it  is,  you  see." 

"But  it's  not  my  fault,  Miss;  if  you  had  a  pay  box  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  I  don't  say  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  we  can't  do  that,"  said  the  manageress  icily,  "they 
would  cost  a  lot  to  build  and  extra  staff  and  we  must  keep 
down  expenses,  you  know.  Competition  is  very  keen  in 
this  trade." 

Victoria  felt  stunned.  The  incident  was  as  full  of  reve- 
lations as  Lizzie's  practices  at  the  desk.  The  girls  cheated 
the  customers,  the  customers  the  girls.  And  the  P.R.R. 
sitting  Olympian  on  its  pillars  of  cloud,  exacted  from  all  its 
dividends.  The  P.R.R.  suddenly  loomed  up  before  Vic- 
toria's eyes  as  a  big  swollen  monster  in  whose  veins  ran 
China  tea.  And  from  its  nostrils  poured  forth  torrents  of 
coffee-scented  steam.  It  grew  and  grew,  and  fed  men  and 
women,  every  now  and  then  extending  a  talon  and  seizing 
a  few  young  girls  with  sore  legs,  a  rival  cafe  or  two.  Then 
it  vanished.  Victoria  was  looking  at  one  of  the  large 
plated  urns. 

"All  right,"  she  said  sullenly,  "I'll  pay." 

As  it  was  her  day  off,  at  six  o'clock  Victoria  went  up  to 
the  change  room,  saying  good-night  to  Betty,  telling  her 
she  was  going  out  to  get  some  fresh  air.  She  thought  it 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  165 

would  do  her  good,  so  rode  on  a  bus  to  the  Green  Park. 
Round  her,  in  Piccadilly,  a  tide  of  rich  life  seemed  to  rise 
redolent  with  scent,  soft  tobacco,  moist  furs,  all  those 
odours  that  herald  and  follow  wealth.  A  savagery  was 
upon  her  as  she  passed  -along  the  club  windows,  now  full 
of  young  men  telling  tales  that  made  their  teeth  shine  in 
the  night,  of  old  men,  red,  pink,  brown,  healthy  in  colour 
and  in  security,  reading,  sleeping,  eking  out  life. 

The  picture  was  familiar;  for  it  was  the  picture  she  had 
so  often  seen  when,  as  a  girl,  she  came  up  to  town  from 
Lympton  for  a  week  to  shop  in  Oxford  Street  and  see, 
from  the  upper  boxes,  the  three  or  four  plays  recom- 
mended by  Hearth  and  Home.  Piccadilly  had  been  her 
Mecca.  It  had  represented  mysterious  delights,  restau- 
rants, little  teashops,  jewellers,  makers  of  cunning  cases 
for  everything.  She  had  never  been  well-off  enough  to 
shop  there,  but  had  gazed  into  its  windows  and  bought  the 
nearest  imitations  in  Oxford  Street.  Then  the  clubs  had 
been,  if  not  familiar,  at  any  rate  friendly.  She  had  once 
with  her  mother  called  at  the  In  and  Out  to  ask  for  a 
general.  He  was  dead  now,  and  so  was  Piccadilly. 

Victoria  remembered  without  joy:  a  sign  of  total  flat- 
ness, for  the  mind  that  does  not  glow  at  the  thought  of 
the  glamorous  past  is  dulled  indeed.  Piccadilly  struck 
her  now  rather  as  a  show  and  a  poor  one,  a  show  of  the 
inefficients  basking,  of  the  wretched  shuffling  by.  And  the 
savagery  that  was  upon  her  waxed  fat.  Without  ideals 
of  ultimate  brotherhood  or  love  she  could  not  help  think- 
ing, half  amused,  of  the  dismay  that  would  come  over 
Lqndon  if  a  bomb  were  suddenly  to  raze  to  the  ground  one 
of  these  shrines  of  men. 

The  bus  stopped  in  a  block  just  opposite  one  of  the 
clubs;  and  Victoria,  from  the  off-side  seat,  could  see  across 
the  road  into  one  of  the  rooms.  There  were  in  it  a  dozen 
men  of  all  ages,  most  of  them  standing  in  small  groups, 
some  already  in  evening  dress;  some  lolled  on  enormous 
padded  chairs  reading,  and,  against  the  mantelpiece  where 
a  fire  burned  brightly,  a  youth  was  telling  an  obviously 
successful  story  to  a  group  of  oldsters.  Their  ease,  their 
conviviality  and  facile  friendship  stung  Victoria;  she  felt 


1 66  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

an  outcast.  What  had  she  now  to  do  with  these  men? 
They  would  not  know  her.  Their  sphere  was  their  fath- 
ers' sphere,  by  right  of  birth  and  wealth,  not  hers  who  had 
not  the  right  of  wealth.  Besides,  perhaps  some  were 
shareholders  in  the  P.R.R.  Painfully  shambling  down  the 
steps,  Victoria  got  off  the  bus  and  entered  the  Green  Park. 
She  sat  down  on  a  seat  under  a  tree  just  bursting  into 
bud. 

For  many  minutes  she  looked  at  the  young  grass,  at 
the  windows  where  lights  were  appearing,  at  a  man  seated 
nearby  and  puffing  rich  blue  smoke  from  his  cigar.  A 
loafer  lay  face  down  on  the  grass,  like  a  bundle.  Her 
moods  altered  between  rage,  as  she  looked  at  the  two  men, 
and  misery  as  she  realised  that  her  lot  was  cast  with  the 
wretch  grovelling  on  the  cold  earth. 

She  noticed  that  the  man  with  the  cigar  was  watching 
her,  but  hardly  looked  at  him.  He  was  fat,  that  was  all 
she  knew.  Her  eyes  once  more  fastened  on  the  loafer. 
He  had  not  fought  the  world;  would  she?  and  how?  Now 
and  then  he  turned  a  little  in  his  sleep,  dreaming  perhaps 
of  feasts  in  Cockayne,  perhaps  of  the  skilly  he  had  tasted 
in  gaol,  of  love  perhaps,  bright-eyed,  master  of  the  gates. 
It  was  cold,  for  the  snap  of  winter  was  in  the  spring  air; 
in  the  pale  western  sky  the  roofs  loomed  black.  Already 
the  dull  glow  of  London  light  rose  like  a  halo  over  the 
town.  Victoria  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  wind;  she  was  a 
little  numb,  her  legs  felt  heavy  as  lead.  A  gust  of  wind 
carried  into  her  face  a  few  drops  of  rain. 

The  man  with  the  cigar  got  up,  slowly  passed  her;  there 
was  something  familiar  in  his  walk.  He  turned  so  as  to 
see  her  face  in  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp.  Then  he  took 
three  quick  steps  towards  her.  Her  heart  was  already 
throbbing;  she  felt  and  yet  did  not  know. 

"Victoria,"  said  the  man  in  a  faint,  far-away  voice. 

Victoria  gasped,  put  her  hand  on  her  heart,  swaying  on 
the  seat.  The  man  sat  down  by  her  side  and  took  her 
hand. 

"Victoria,"  he  said  again.  There  was  in  his  voice  a  rich 
quality. 

"Oh,  Major  Cairns,  Major  Cairns,"  she  burst  out.    And 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  167 

clasping  his  hand  between  hers,  she  laid  her  face  upon  it. 
He  felt  all  her  body  throb ;  there  were  tears  on  his  hands. 
A  man  of  the  world,  he  very  gently  lifted  up  her  chin  and 
raised  her  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"There,"  he  said  softly,  still  retaining  her  hands,  "don't 
cry,  dear,  all  is  well.  Don't  speak.  I  have  found  you." 

With  all  the  gentleness  of  a  heavy  man  he  softly  stroked 
her  hands. 

CHAPTER  XXV 

Two  days  later  Victoria  was  floating  in  the  curious 
ether  of  the  unusual.  It  was  Sunday  night.  She  was 
before  a  little  table  at  one  of  those  concealed  restaurants 
in  Soho  where  blows  fragrant  the  wind  of  France.  She 
was  sitting  in  a  softly  cushioned  armchair,  grateful  to 
arms  and  back,  her  feet  propped  up  on  a  footstool.  Be- 
fore her  lay  the  little  table,  with  its  rough  cloth,  imper- 
fectly clean  and  shining  dully  with  Brittania  ware.  There 
were  flowers  in  a  small  mug  of  Bruges  pottery;  there  was 
little  light  save  from  candles  discreetly  veiled  by  pink 
shades.  The  bill  of  fare,  rigid  on  its  metal  stem,  bore  the 
two  shilling  table  d'hote  and  the  more  pretentious  a  la 
carte.  An  immense  feeling  of  restfulness,  so  complete  as 
to  be  positive,  was  upon  her.  She  felt  luxurious  and  at 
large,  at  one  with  the  other  couples  who  sat  nearby,  smil- 
ing, with  possessive  hands. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  sat  Major  Cairns.  He 
had  not  altered  very  much  except  that  he  was  stouter. 
His  grey  eyes  still  shone  kindly  from  his  rather  gross  face, 
Victoria  could  not  make  up  her  mind  whether  she  liked 
him  or  not.  When  she  met  him  in  the  park  he  had  seemed 
beautiful  as  an  archangel ;  he  had  been  gentle,  too,  as  big 
men  mostly  are  to  women,  but  now  she  could  feel  him 
examining  her  critically,  noting  her  points,  speculating  on 
the  change  in  her,  wondering  whether  her  ravaged  beauty 
was  greater  and  her  neck  softer  than  when  he  last  held  her 
in  his  arms  off  the  coast  of  Araby. 

Victoria  had  compacted  for  a  quiet  place.  She  could 
not,  she  felt,  face  the  Pall  Mall  or  Jermyn  Street  restau- 


1 68  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

rants,  their  lights,  wealth  of  silver  and  glass,  their  soft 
carpets,  their  silent  waiters.  The  Major  had  agreed,  for 
he  knew  women  well  and  was  not  over-anxious  to  expose 
to  the  eyes  of  the  town  Victoria's  paltry  clothes.  Now  he 
had  her  before  him  he  began  to  regret  that  he  had  not 
risked  it.  For  Victoria  had  gained  as  much  as  she  had  lost 
in  looks.  Her  figure  had  shrunk,  but  her  neck  was  still 
beautifully  moulded,  broad  as  a  pillar;  her  colour  had 
gone  down  almost  to  dead  white;  the  superfluous  flesh  had 
wasted  away  and  had  left  bare  the  splendid  line  of  the 
strong  chin  and  jaw.  Her  eyes,  however,  were  the  magnet 
that  held  Cairns  fast.  They  were  as  grey  as  ever,  but 
dilated  and  thrown  into  contrast  with  the  pale  skin  by 
the  purple  zone  which  surrounded  them.  They  stared  be- 
fore them  with  a  novel  boldness,  a  strange  lucidity. 

"Victoria,"  whispered  Cairns,  leaning  forward,  "you  are 
very  beautiful." 

Victoria  laughed  and  a  faint  flush  rose  into  her  cheeks. 
There  was  still  something  grateful  in  the  admiration  of 
this  man,  gross  and  limited  as  he  might  be,  centred  round 
his  pleasures,  sceptical  of  good  and  evil  alike.  Without  a 
word  she  took  up  a  spoon  and  began  to  eat  her  ice. 
Cairns  watched  every  movement  of  her  hand  and  wrist. 

"Don't,"  said  Victoria  after  a  pause.  She  dropped  her 
spoon  and  put  her  hands  under  the  table. 

"Don't  what?"  said  Cairns. 

"Look  at  my  hands.  They're  .  .  .  Oh,  they're  not 
what  they  were.  It  makes  me  feel  ashamed." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Cairns  with  a  laugh.  "Your  hands 
are  still  as  fine  as  ever  and,  when  we've  had  them  mani- 
cured .  .  ." 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  if  he  had  said  too  much. 

"Manicured?"  said  Victoria  warily,  though  the  "we" 
had  given  her  a  little  shock.  "Oh,  they're  not  worth 
manicuring  now  for  the  sort  of  work  I've  got  to  do." 

"Look  here,  Victoria,"  said  Cairns  rather  roughly. 
"This  can't  go  on.  You're  not  made  to  be  one  of  the 
drabs.  You  say  your  work  is  telling  on  you:  well,  you 
must  give  it  up." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  169 

"Oh,  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Victoria,  "I've  got  to  earn 
my  living  and  I'm  no  good  for  anything  else." 

Cairns  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  meditatively 
sipped  his  port. 

"Drink  the  port,"  he  commanded,  "it'll  do  you  good." 

Victoria  obeyed  willingly  enough.  There  was  already 
in  her  blood  the  glow  of  Burgundy ;  but  the  port,  mellow, 
exquisite,  and  curling  round  the  tongue,  coloured  like 
burnt  almonds,  fragrant,  too,  concealed  a  deeper  joy.  The 
smoke  from  Cairns'  cigar,  half  hiding  his  face,  floating  in 
wreaths  between  them,  entered  her  nostrils,  aromatic,  nar- 
cotic. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  doing  now?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know  quite,"  said  Cairns.  "You  see  I  broke 
my  good  resolution.  After  my  job  at  Perim,  they  offered 
me  some  surveying  work  near  Ormuz;  they  called  it  sur- 
veying, but  it's  spying  really  or  it  would  be  if  there  were 
anything  to  spy.  I  took  it  and  rather  enjoyed  it." 

"Did  you  have  any  adventures?"  asked  Victoria. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of  except  expeditions  into  the  hinter- 
land trying  to  get  fresh  meat.  The  East  is  overrated,  I 
assure  you.  A  butr  landed  off  our  station  once,  probably 
intending  to  turn  us  into  ablebodied  slaves.  There  were 
only  seven  of  us  to  their  thirty  but  we  killed  ten  with  two 
volleys  and  they  made  off,  parting  with  their  anchor  in 
their  hurry." 

Cairns  looked  at  Victoria.  The  flush  had  not  died 
from  her  cheeks.  She  was  good  to  look  upon. 

"No,"  he  went  on  more  slowly,  "I  don't  quite  know 
what  I  shall  do.  I  meant  to  retire  anyhow,  you  know, 
and  the  sudden  death  of  my  uncle,  old  Marmaduke  Cairns, 
settled  it.  I  never  expected  to  get  a  look  in,  but  there 
was  hardly  anybody  else  to  leave  anything  to,  except  his 
sisters  whom  he  hated  like  poison,  so  I'm  the  heir.  I  don't 
yet  know  what  I'm  worth  quite,  but  the  old  man  always 
seemed  to  do  himself  pretty  well." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Victoria.  She  was  not.  The  mon- 
strous stupidity  of  a  system  which  suddenly  places  a  man 
in  a  position  enabling  him  to  live  on  the  labour  of  a 
thousand  was  obvious  to  her. 


170  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"I'm  rather  at  a  loose  end,"  said  Cairns,  musing,  "you 
see  I've  had  enough  knocking  about.  But  it's  rather  dull 
here,  you  know.  I'm  not  a  marrying  man  either." 

Victoria  was  disturbed.  She  looked  at  Cairns  and  met 
his  eyes.  There  was  forming  in  them  a  question.  As  she 
looked  at  him  the  expression  faded  and  he  signed  to  the 
waiter  to  bring  the  coffee. 

As  they  sipped  it  they  spoke  little,  but  inspected  one 
another  narrowly.  Victoria  told  herself  that  if  Cairns 
offered  her  marriage  she  would  accept  him.  She  was 
not  sure  that  ideal  happiness  would  be  hers  if  she  did ;  his 
limitations  were  more  apparent  to  her  than  they  had  been 
when  she  first  knew  him.  Yet  the  alternative  was  the 
P.R.R.  and  all  that  must  follow. 

Cairns  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  question  Vic- 
toria had  surprised.  Though  he  was  by  no  means  cautious 
or  shy,  being  a  bold  and  good  liver,  he  felt  that  Victoria's 
present  position  made  it  difficult  to  be  sentimental.  So 
they  talked  of  different  things.  But  when  they  left  the 
restaurant  and  drove  towards  Finsbury  Victoria  came 
closer  to  him ;  and,  unconsciously  almost,  Cairns  took  her 
hand,  which  she  did  not  withdraw.  He  leant  towards 
her.  His  hand  grew  more  insistent  on  her  arm.  She  was 
passive,  though  her  heart  beat  and  fear  was  upon  her. 

"Victoria,"  said  Cairns,  his  voice  strained  and  metallic. 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him.  There  was  in  it 
complete  acquiescence.  He  passed  one  arm  round  her 
waist  and  drew  her  towards  him.  She  could  feel  his  chest 
crush  her  as  he  bent  her  back.  His  lips  fastened  on  her 
neck  greedily. 

"Victoria,"  said  Cairns  again,  "I  want  you.  Come  away 
from  all  this  labour  and  pain;  let  me  make  you  happy." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  question  in  her  eyes. 

"As  free  man  and  woman,"  he  stammered.  Then  more 
firmly: 

"111  make  you  happy.  You'll  want  nothing.  Perhaps 
you'll  even  learn  to  like  me." 

Victoria  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  The  proposal  did 
not  offend  her;  she  was  too  broken,  too  stupefied  for  her 
inherent  prejudices  to  assert  themselves.  Morals,  belief, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  171 

reputation,  what  figments  all  these  tilings.  What  was 
this  freedom  of  hers  that  she  should  set  so  high  a  price  on 
it?  And  here  was  comfort,  wealth,  peace — oh,  peace. 
Yet  she  hesitated  to  plunge  into  the  cold  stream;  she 
stood  shivering  on  the  edge. 

"Let  me  think,"  she  said. 

Cairns  pressed  her  closer  to  him.  A  little  of  the  flame 
that  warmed  his  body  passed  into  hers. 

"Don't  hurry  me.  Please.  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  .  .  ." 

He  bent  over  with  hungry  lips. 

"Yes,  you  may  kiss  me." 

Submissive,  if  frightened,  and  repelled,  yet  with  a  heart 
where  hope  fluttered,  she  surrendered  him  her  lips. 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

"I  DON'T  approve  and  I  don't  disapprove,"  snarled 
Farwell.  "I'm  not  my  sister's  keeper.  I  don't  pretend  to 
think  it  noble  of  you  to  live  with  a  man  you  don't  care 
for,  but  I  don't  say  you're  wrong  to  do  it." 

"But  really,"  said  Victoria,  "if  you  don't  think  it  right 
to  do  a  thing,  you  must  think  it  wrong." 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  neutral,  or  rather  my  reason  sup- 
ports what  my  principles  reject.  Thus  my  principles  may 
seem  unreasonable  and  my  reasoning  devoid  of  principle, 
but  I  cannot  help  that." 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment.  She  was  about  to  take 
a  great  step  and  she  longed  for  approval. 

"Mr.  Farwell,"  she  said  deliberately,  "I've  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  you  are  right.  We  are  crabs  in  a  bucket 
and  those  at  the  bottom  are  no  nobler  than  those  on  the 
top,  for  they  would  gladly  be  on  the  top.  I'm  going  on 
the  top." 

"Sophist,"  said  Farwell,  smiling. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means,"  Victoria  went  on; 
"I  suppose  you  think  that  I'm  trying  to  cheat  myself  as 
to  what  is  right.  Possibly,  but  I  don't  profess  to  know 
what  is  right." 

"Oh,  no  more  do  I,"  interrupted  Farwell,  "please  don't 


172  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

set  me  up  as  a  judge.  I  haven't  got  any  ethical  standards 
for  you.  I  don't  believe  there  are  any;  the  -ethics  of  the 
Renaissance  are  not  those  of  the  twentieth  century,  nor 
are  those  of  London  the  same  as  those  of  Constantinople. 
Time  and  space  work  moral  revolutions;  and,  even  on 
stereotyped  lines,  nobody  can  say  present  ethics  are  the 
best.  From  a  conventional  point  of  view  the  hundred  and 
fifty  years  that  separate  us  from  Fielding  mark  an  im- 
provement, but  I  have  still  to  learn  that  the  morals  of 
to-day  compare  favourably  with  those  of  Sparta.  You 
must  decide  that  for  yourself." 

"I  am  doing  so,"  said  Victoria  quietly,  "but  I  don't 
think  you  quite  understand  a  woman's  position  and  I 
want  you  to.  I  find  a  world  where  the  harder  a  woman 
works,  the  worse  she  is  paid,  where  her  mind  is  despised 
and  her  body  courted.  Oh,  I  know,  you  haven't  done 
that,  but  you  don't  employ  women.  Nobody  but  you  has 
ever  cared  a  scrap  about  such  brains  as  I  may  have;  the 
subs  courted  me  in  my  husband's  regiment  .  .  ."  She 
stopped  abruptly,  having  spoken  too  freely. 

"Go  on,"  said  Farwell  tactfully. 

"And  in  London  what  have  I  found?  Nothing  but 
men  bent  on  one  pursuit.  They  have  followed  me  in  the 
streets  and  tubes,  tried  to  sit  by  me  in  the  parks.  They 
have  tried  to  touch  me — yes,  me!  the  dependent  who 
could  not  resent  it,  when  I  served  them  with  their  food. 
Their  talk  is  the  inane,  under  which  they  cloak  desire. 
Their  words  are  covert  appeals.  I  hear  round  me  the 
everlasting  cry:  yield,  yield,  for  that  is  all  we  want  from 
young  women." 

"True,"  said  Farwell,  "I  have  never  denied  this." 

"And  yet,"  answered  Victoria  angrily,  "you  almost 
blame  me.  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never  seen  the  world 
as  I  do  now.  Men  have  no  use  for  us  save  as  mistresses, 
whether  legal  or  not.  Perhaps  they  will  have  us  as 
breeders  or  housekeepers,  but  the  mistress  is  the  root  of 
it  all.  And  if  they  can  gain  us  without  pledges,  without 
risks,  by  promises,  by  force  or  by  deceit,  they  will." 

Farwell  said  nothing.    His  eyes  were  full  of  sorrow. 

"My  husband  drank  himself  to  death,"  pursued  Vic- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  173 

toria  in  low  tones.  "The  proprietor  of  the  Rosebud  tried 
to  force  me  to  become  his  toy  .  .  .  perhaps  he  would  have 
thrown  me  on  the  streets  if  he  had  had  time  to  pursue  me 
longer  and  if  I  refused  myself  still  .  .  .  because  he  was 
my  employer  and  all  is  fair  in  what  they  call  love.  .  .  . 
The  customers  bought  every  day  for  twopence  the  right 
to  stare  through  my  openwork  blouse,  to  touch  my  hand, 
to  brush  my  knees  with  theirs.  One,  who  seemed  above 
them,  tried  to  break  my  body  into  obedience  by  force.  .  .  . 
Here,  at  the  P.R.R.,  I  am  a  toy  still,  though  more  of  a 
servant.  .  .  .  Soon  I  shall  be  a  cripple  and  good  neither 
for  servant  nor  mistress,  what  will  you  do  with  me?" 

Farwell  made  a  despairing  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Victoria  with  ferocious  intensity, 
"you're  right,  life's  a  fight  and  I'm  going  to  win,  for  my 
eyes  are  clear.  I  have  done  with  sentiment  and  sym- 
pathy. A  man  may  command  respect  as  a  wage  earner;  a 
woman  commands  nothing  but  what  she  can  cheat  out  of 
men's  senses.  She  must  be  rich,  she  must  be  economic- 
ally independent.  Then  men  will  crawl  where  they  hec- 
tored, worship  that  which  they  burned.  And  if  I  must 
be  dependent  to  become  independent,  that  is  a  stage  I 
am  ready  for." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Farwell. 

"I'm  going  to  live  with  this  man,"  said  Victoria  in  a 
frozen  voice.  "I  neither  love  nor  hate  him.  I  am  going 
to  exploit  him,  to  extort  from  him  as  much  of  the  joy  of 
life  as  I  can,  but  above  all  I  am  going  to  draw  from  him, 
from  others,  too,  if  I  can,  as  much  wealth  as  I  can.  I 
will  store  it,  hive  it  bee-like,  and  when  my  treasure  is 
great  enough  I  will  consume  it.  And  the  world  will  stand 
by  and  shout:  hallelujah,  a  rich  woman  cometh  into  her 
kingdom." 

Farwell  remained  silent  for  a  minute. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  "if  you  must  choose,  then  be 
strong  and  carve  your  way  into  freedom.  I  have  not 
done  this,  and  the  world  has  sucked  me  dry.  You  can 
still  be  free,  so  do  not  shrink  from  the  means.  You  are  a 
woman,  your  body  is  your  fortune,  your  only  fortune,  so 
translate  it  into  gold.  You  v.-ill  succeed,  you  will  be  rich ; 


174  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

and  the  swine,  instead  of  trampling  on  you,  will  herd 
round  the  trough  where  you  scatter  pearls." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  slowly  puffing  at  his  pipe. 

"Women's  profession,"  he  muttered.  "The  time  will 
come  .  .  .  but  to-day  ..." 

Victoria  looked  at  him,  a  faint  figure  in  the  night.  He 
was  the  spectral  prophet,  a  David  in  fear  of  Goliath. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "woman's  profession." 

Together  they  walked  away.  Farwell  was  almost  solilo- 
quising. "If  she  is  brave,  life  is  easier  for  a  woman  than 
a  man.  She  can  play  on  him;  but  her  head  must  be  coolr 
her  heart  silent.  Hear  this,  Victoria.  Remember  yours 
is  a  trade  and  needs  your  application.  To  win  this  fight 
you  .must  be  well  equipped.  Let  your  touch  be  soft  as 
velvet,  your  grip  as  hard  as  steel.  Shrink  from  nothing, 
rise  to  treachery,  let  the  worldly  nadir  be  your  zenith." 

He  stopped  before  a  public  house  and  opened  the  door 
of  the  bar  a  little. 

"Look  in  here,"  he  said. 

Victoria  looked.  There  were  five  men,  half  hidden  in 
smoke;  among  them  sat  one  woman  clad  in  vivid  colours, 
her  face  painted,  her  hands  dirty  and  covered  with  rings. 
Her  yello\\r  hair  made  a  vivid  patch  against  the  brown 
wall.  A  yard  away,  alone  at  a  small  table,  sat  another 
woman,  covered,  too,  with  cheap  finery,  with  weary  eyes 
and  a  smiling  mouth,  her  figure  abandoned  on  a  sofa,  lost 
to  the  scene,  her  look  fixed  on  the  side  door  through  which 
men  slink  in. 

"Remember,"  said  Farwell,  "give  no  quarter  in  the 
struggle,  for  you  will  get  none." 

Victoria  shuddered.     But  the  fury  was  upon  her. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  she  hissed,  "I'll  spare  nobody. 
They've  already  given  me  a  taste  of  the  whip.  I  know. 
I  understand;  those  girls  don't.  I  see  the  goal  before 
me  and  therefore  I  will  reach  it." 

Farwell  looked  at  her  again,  his  eyes  full  of  melan- 
choly. 

"Go,  then,  Victoria,"  he  said,  "and  work  out  your 
fate." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  175 

PART  II 
CHAPTER  I 

VICTORIA  turned  uneasily  on  the  sofa  and  stretched  her 
arms.  She  yawned,  then  sat  up  abruptly.  Sudermann's 
Katzensteg  fell  to  the  ground  off  her  lap.  She  was  in  a 
tiny  back  room,  so  overcrowded  by  the  sofa  and  easy-chair 
that  she  could  almost  touch  a  small  rosewood  bureau  op- 
posite. She  looked  round  the  room  lazily,  then  relapsed 
on  the  sofa,  hugging  a  cushion.  She  snuggled  her  face 
into  it,  voluptuously  breathing  in  its  compactness  laden 
with  scent  and  tobacco  smoke.  Then,  looking  up,  she  re- 
flected that  she  was  very  comfortable. 

Victoria's  boudoir  was  the  back  extension  of  the  dining- 
room.  Shut  off  by  the  folding  doors,  it  contained  within 
its  tiny  space  the  comfort  which  is  only  found  in  small 
rooms.  It  was  papered  red  with  a  flowered  pattern,  which 
she  thought  ugly,  but  which  had  just  been  imported  from 
France  and  was  quite  the  thing.  The  sofa  and  easy-chair 
were  covered  with  obtrusively  new  red  and  white  chintz; 
a  little  pile  of  cushions  had  fallen  on  the  indeterminate 
Persian  pattern  of  the  carpet.  Long  coffee-coloured  cur- 
tains, banded  with  chintz,  shut  out  part  of  the  high  win- 
dow, through  which  a  little  of  the  garden  and  the  bare 
branches  of  a  tree  could  be  seen.  Victoria  took  all  this 
in  for  the  hundredth  time.  She  had  been  sleeping  for  an 
hour;  she  felt  smooth,  stroked;  she  could  have  hugged  all 
these  pretty  things,  the  little  brass  fender,  the  books,  the 
Delft  inkpot  on  the  little  bureau.  Everything  in  the  room 
was  already  intimate.  Her  eyes  dwelt  on  the  clean 
chintzes,  on  the  half  blinds  surmounted  by  insertion,  the 
brass  ashtrays,  the  massive  silver  cigarette  box. 

Victoria  stood  up,  the  movement  changing  the  direction 
of  her  contemplative  mood.  The  Gothic  rosewood  clock 
told  her  it  was  a  little  after  three.  She  went  to  the  ciga- 
rette box  and  lit  a  cigarette.  While  slowly  inhaling  the 
smoke,  she  rang  the  bell.  On  her  forefinger  there  was  a 
faint  yellow  tinge  of  nicotine  which  had  reached  the 
nail. 


176  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"I  shall  have  to  be  manicured  again,"  she  soliloquised. 
"What  a  nuisance.  Better  have  it  done  to-day  while  I 
get  my  hair  done,  too." 

uYes,  mum."  A  neat  dark  maid  stood  at  the  door. 
Victoria  did  not  answer  for  a  second.  The  girl's  black 
dress  was  perfectly  brushed,  her  cap,  collar,  cuffs,  apron, 
immaculate  white. 

"I'm  going  out  now,  Mary,"  said  Victoria.  "You'd  bet- 
ter get  my  brown  velvet  out." 

"Yes,  mum,"  said  the  maid.  "Will  you  be  back  for 
dinner,  mum?" 

"No,  I'm  dining  with  the  Major.  Oh,  don't  get  the 
velvet  out.  It's  muddy  out,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  mum.    It's  been  raining  in  the  morning,  mum." 

"Ah,  well,  perhaps  I'd  better  wear  the  grey  coat  and 
skirt.  And  my  furs  and  toque." 

"The  beaver,  mum?" 

"No,  of  course  not,  the  white  fox.  And,  oh,  Mary,  I've 
lost  my  little  bag  somewhere.  And  tell  Charlotte  to  send 
me  up  a  cup  of  tea  at  half -past  three." 

Mary  left  the  room  silently.  She  seldom  asked  ques- 
tions, and  never  expressed  pleasure,  displeasure  or  sur- 
prise. 

Victoria  walked  up  to  her  bedroom;  the  staircase  was 
papered  with  a  pretty  blue  and  white  pattern  over  a  dado 
of  white  lincrusta.  A  few  French  engravings  stood  out 
in  their  old  gold  frames.  Victoria  stopped  at  the  first 
landing  to  look  at  her  favourite,  after  Lancret;  it  repre- 
sented lovers  surprised  in  a  barn  by  an  irate  husband. 

The  bedroom  occupied  the  entire  first  floor.  On  taking 
possession  of  the  little  house  she  had  realised  that,  as  she 
would  have  no  callers,  a  drawing-room  would  be  absurd, 
so  had  suppressed  the  folding  doors  and  made  the  two 
rooms  into  one  large  one.  In  the  front,  between  the  two 
windows,  stood  her  dressing-table,  now  covered  with  small 
bottles,  some  in  cut  glass  and  full  of  scent,  others  more 
workmanlike,  marked  vaseline,  glycerine,  skin  food,  bay 
rum.  Scattered  about  them  on  the  lace  toilet  cover,  were 
boxes  of  powder,  white,  sepia,  bluish,  puffs,  little  sticks 
of  cosmetics,  some  silver-backed  brushes,  some  squat  and 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  177 

short-bristled,  others  with  long  handles,  with  long  soft 
bristles,  one  studded  with  short  wires,  another  with  whale- 
bone, some  clothes  brushes,  too,  buttonhooks,  silver  trays, 
a  handglass  with  a  massive  silver  handle.  Right  and  left, 
two  little  electric  lamps  and  above  the  swinging  mirror, 
a  shaded  bulb  shedding  a  candid  glow. 

One  wall  was  blotted  out  by  two  inlaid  mahogany 
wardrobes;  through 'the  open  doors  of  one  could  be  seen  a 
pile  of  frilled  linen,  lace  petticoats,  chemises  threaded  with 
coloured  ribbons.  On  the  large  armchair,  covered  with 
blue  and  white  chintz,  was  a  crumpled  heap  of  white  linen, 
a  pair  of  Qaje  au  lait  silk  stockings.  A  light  mahogany 
chair  or  two  stood  about  the  room.  Each  had  a  blue  and 
white  cushion.  A  large  wash-stand  stood  near  the  man- 
telpiece, laden -with  blue  and  white  ware.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  blue  silky  paper,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
some  colour  prints.  These  were  mostly  English;  their 
nude  beauties  sprawled  and  languished  slyly  among 
bushes,  listening  to  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Victoria  went  into  the  back  of  the  room,  and,  unhook- 
ing her  cream  silk  dressing  jacket,  threw  it  on  the  bed. 
This  was  a  vast  low  edifice  of  glittering  brown  wood, 
covered  now  by  a  blue  and  white  silk  bedspread  with 
edges  smothered  in  lace;  from  the  head  of  the  bed  peeped 
out  the  tips  of  two  lace  pillows.  By  the  side  of  the  bed, 
on  the  little  night  table,  -stood  two  or  three  books,  a  read- 
ing lamp  and  a  small  silver  basket  full  of  sweets.  An 
ivory  bell-pull  hung  by  the  side  of  a  swinging  switch  just 
between  the  pillows. 

Victoria  walked  past  the  bed  and  looked  at  herself  in 
the  high  looking-glass  set  into  the  wall,  which  rose  from 
the  floor  to  well  above  her  head.  The  mirror  threw  back 
a  pleasing  reflection.  It  showed  her  a  woman  of  twenty- 
six,  neither  short  nor  tall,  dressed  in  a  white  petticoat  and 
mauve  silk  corsets.  The  corsets  fitted  well  into  the  figure, 
which  was  round  and  inclined  to  be  full.  Her  arms  and 
neck,  framed  with  white  frillings,  were  uniformly  cream 
coloured,  shadowed  a  little  darker  at  the  elbows,  near  the 
rounded  shoulders  and  under  the  jaw;  all  her  skin  had  a 
glow,  half  vigorous,  half  delicate.  But  the  woman's  face 


1 78  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

interested  Victoria  more.  Her  hair  was  piled  high  and 
black  over  a  broad,  low,  white  forehead ;  the  cream  of  the 
skin  turned  faintly  into  colour  at  the  cheeks,  into  crimson 
at  the  lips;  her  eyes  were  large,  steel  grey,  long  lashed 
and  thrown  into  relief  by  a  faintly  mauve  aura.  There 
was  strength  in  the  jaw,  square,  hard,  fine  cut;  there  was 
strength,  too,  in  the  steadiness  of  the  eyes,  in  the  slightly 
compressed  red  lips. 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria  to  the  picture,  "you  mean  busi- 
ness." She  reflected  that  she  was  fatter  than  she  had 
ever  been.  Two  months  of  rest  had  worked  a  revolution 
in  her.  The  sudden  change  from  toil  to  idleness  had 
caused  a  reaction.  There  was  something  -almost  matronly 
about  the  soft  curves  of  her  breast.  But  the  change  was 
to  the  good.  She  was  less  interesting  than  the  day  when 
the  Major  sat  face  to  face  with  her  in  Soho,  his  pulse 
beating  quicker  -and  quicker  as  her  ravished  beauty  stimu- 
lated him  by  its  novelty;  but  she  was  a  finer  animal. 
Indeed,  she  realised  to  the  full  that  she  had  never  been  so 
beautiful,  that  she  had  never  been  beautiful  before,  as 
men  understand  beauty. 

The  past  two  months  had  been  busy  as  well  as  idle, 
busy,  that  is,  as  an  idle  woman's  time.  She  had  felt 
weary  now  and  then,  like  those  unfortunates  who  are 
bound  to  the  wheel  of  pleasure  and  are  compelled  to  "do 
too  much."  Major  Cairns  had  launched  out  into  his  first 
experiment  in  pseudo-married  life  with  an  almost  boyish 
zest.  It  was  he  who  had  practically  compelled  her  to  take 
the  little  house  in  Elm  Tree  Place. 

"Think  of  it,  Vic,"  he  had  said,  "your  own  little  den. 
With  no  prying  neighbours.  And  your  own  little  garden. 
And  dogs." 

He  had  waxed  quite  sentimental  over  it  and  Victoria, 
full  of  the  gratitude  that  makes  a  woman  cling  to  the 
fireman  when  he  has  rescued  her,  had  helped  him  to  build 
a  home  for  the  idyll.  Within  a  feverish  month  he  had 
produced  the  house  as  it  stood.  He  had  hardly  allowed 
Victoria  any  choice  in  the  matter,  for  he  would  not  let  her 
do  anything.  He  practically  compelled  her  to  keep  to  her 
suite  at  the  hotel,  so  that  she  might  get  well.  He  strug- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  179 

gled  alone  with  the  decoration,  plumbing,  furniture  and 
linoleum,  linen  and  garden.  Now  and  then  he  would  ring 
up  to  know  whether  she  preferred  salmon  pink  to  jraise 
ecrasee  cushions,  or  he  would  come  up  to  the  hotel  rent  in 
twain  by  conflicting  rugs.  At  last  he  had  pronounced  the 
house  ready,  and,  after  supplying  it  with  Mary  and  Char- 
lotte, had  triumphantly  installed  his  new  queen  in  her 
palace. 

Victoria's  first  revelation  was  one  of  immense  joy;  un- 
questioning, and  for  one  moment  quite  disinterested.  It 
was  not  until  a  few  hours  had  elapsed  that  she  regained 
mastery  over  herself.  She  went  from  room  to  room 
punching  curtains,  pressing  her  hands  over  the  polished 
wood,  at  times  feeling  voluptuously  on  hands  and  knees 
the  pile  of  the  carpets.  She  almost  loved  Cairns  at  the 
moment.  It  was  quite  honestly  that  she  drew  him  down 
by  her  side  on  the  red  and  white  sofa  and  softly  kissed  his 
cheek  and  drove  his  ragged  moustache  into  rebellion.  It 
was  quite  willingly,  too,  that  she  felt  his  grasp  tighten  on 
her  and  that  she  yielded  to  him.  Her  lips  did  not  abhor 
his  kisses. 

Some  hours  later  she  became  herself  again.  Cairns  was 
good  to  her,  but  good  as  the  grazier  is  to  the  heifer  from 
whom  he  hopes  to  breed;  she  was  his  creature,  and  must 
be  well  housed,  well  fed,  well  clothed,  so  that  his  eyes 
might  feast  on  her,  scented  so  that  his  desire  for  her 
might  be  whipped  into  action.  In  her  moments  of  cold 
horror  in  the  past  she  had  realised  herself  as  a  commodity, 
as  a  beast  of  burden;  now  she  realised  herself  as  a  beast 
of  pleasure.  The  only  thing  to  remember  then  was  to 
coin  into  gold  her  condescension. 

Victoria  looked  at  herself  again  in  the  glass.  Yes,  it 
was  condescension.  As  a  free  woman,  that  is,  a  woman 
of  means,  she  would  never  have  surrendered  to  Cairns  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  Off  the  coast  of  Araby  she  had  yielded 
to  him  a  little,  so  badly  did  she  need  human  sympathy,  a 
little  warmth  in  the  cold  of  the  lonely  night.  When  he 
appeared  again  as  the  rescuer  she  had  flung  herself  into 
his  arms  with  an  appalling  fetterless  joy.  She  had  plunged 
her  life  into  his  as  into  Nirvana. 


i8o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Now  her  head  was  cooler.  Indeed,  it  had  been  cool 
for  a  month.  She  saw  Cairns  as  an  average  man,  neither 
good  nor  evil,  a  son  of  his  father  and  the  seed  thereof, 
bound  by  a  strict  code  of  honour  and  a  lax  code  of  morals. 
She  saw  him  as  a  dull  man  with  the  superficial  polish  that 
even  the  roughest  pebble  acquires  in  the  stream  of  life. 
He  had  found  her  at  low  water  mark,  stranded  and  gasp- 
ing on  the  sands ;  he  had  picked  her  up  and  imprisoned  her 
in  this  vivarium  to  which  he  alone  had  access,  where  he 
could  enjoy  his  capture  to  the  full. 

"And  the  capture's  business  is  to  get  as  much  out  of 
the  captor  as  possible,  so  as  to  buy  its  freedom  back." 
This  was  Victoria's  new  philosophy.  She  had  dexterously 
induced  Cairns  to  give  her  a  thousand  a  year.  She  knew 
perfectly  well  that  she  could  live  on  seven  hundred,  per- 
haps on  six.  Besides,  she  played  on  his  pride.  Cairns 
was,  after  all,  only  a  big  middle-aged  boy;  it  made  him 
swell  to  accompany  Victoria  to  Sloane  Street  to  buy  a  hat, 
to  the  Leicester  Gallery  to  see  the  latest  one-man  show. 
She  was  a  credit  to  a  fellow.  Thus  she  found  no  difficulty 
in  making  him  buy  her  sables,  gold  purses,  Whistler  etch- 
ings. They  would  come  in  handy,  she  reflected,  "when 
the  big  bust-up  came."  For  Victoria  was  not  rocking 
herself  in  the  fl-ansitory,  but  from  the  very  first  making 
ready  for  the  storm  which  follows  on  the  longest  stretch 
of  fair  weather. 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria  again  to  the  mirror,  "you  mean 
business."  The  door  opened  and  almost  noiselessly  closed. 
Mary  brought  in  a  tray  covered  with  a  clean  set  of  silver- 
backed  brushes,  and  piled  up  the  other  ready  to  take 
away.  She  put  a  water  can  on  the  washstand  and  parsi- 
moniously measured  into  it  some  attar  of  roses.  Victoria 
stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood  there 
braced  and  stiff  as  the  maid  unlaced  and  then  tightened 
her  stays. 

"What  will  you  wear  this  evening,  mum?"  asked  Mary, 
as  Victoria  sat  down  in  the  low  dressing  chair  opposite  the 
swinging  glass. 

"This  evening?"  mused  Victoria.  "Let  me  see,  there's 
the  gris  perle." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  181 

"No,  mum,  I've  sent  it  to  the  cleaner's,"  said  Mary. 
Her  fingers  were  deftly  removing  the  sham  curls  from 
Victoria's  back  hair. 

"You've  worn  it  four  times,  mum,"  she  added  reproach- 
fully. 

"Oh,  have  I?  I  don't  think  ...  oh,  that's  all  right, 
Mary." 

Victoria  reflected  that  she  would  never  have  a  well- 
trained  maid  if  she  finished  sentences  such  as  this.  Four 
times!  Well,  she  must  give  the  Major  his  money's  worth. 

"You  might  wear  your  red  Directoire,  mum,"  suggested 
Mary  in  the  unemotional  tones  of  one  who  is  paid  not  to 
hear  slips. 

"I  might.  Yes.  Perhaps  it's  a  little  loud  for  the  Carl- 
ton." 

"Yes,  mum,"  said  Mary  without  committing  herself. 

"After  all,  I  don't  think  it  is  so  loud." 

"No,  mum,"  said  Mary  in  even  tones.  She  deftly  rolled 
her  mistress'  plaits  round  the  crown. 

Victoria  felt  vaguely  annoyed.  The  woman's  words 
were  anonymous. 

"But  what  do  you  think,  Mary?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  think  you're  quite  right,  mum,"  said  Mary. 

Victoria  watched  her  face  in  the  glass.  Not  a  wave  of 
opinion  rippled  over  it. 

Victoria  got  up.  She  stretched  out -her  arms  for  Mary 
to  slip  the  skirt  over  her  head.  The  maid  closed  the  lace 
blouse,  quickly  clipped  the  fasteners  together,  then  closed 
the  placket  hole  completely.  Without  a  word  she  fetched 
the  light  grey  coat,  slipped  it  on  Victoria's  shoulders.  She 
found  the  grey  skin  bag,  while  Victoria  put  on  her  white 
fox  toque.  She  then  encased  Victoria's  head  in  a  grey 
silk  veil  and  sprayed  her  with  scent.  Victoria  looked  at 
herself  in  the  glass.  She  was  lovely,  she  thought. 

"Anything  else,  mum?"  said  Mary's  quiet  voice. 

"No,  Mary,  nothing  else." 

"Thank  you,  mum." 

As  Victoria  turned,  she  found  the  maid  had  disappeared, 
but  her  watchful  presence  was  by  the  front  door  to  open 


i82  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

it  for  her.  Victoria  saw  her  from  the  stairs,  a  short,  erect 
figure,  with  a  pale  face  framed  in  dark  hair.  She  stood 
with  one  hand  on  the  latch,  the  other  holding  a  cab 
whistle;  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground.  As  Victoria 
passed  out  she  looked  at  Mary.  The  girl's  eyes  were 
averted  still,  her  face  without  a  question.  Upon  her  left 
hand  she  wore  a  thin  gold  ring  with  a  single  red  stone. 
The  ring  fastened  on  Victoria's  imagination  as  she  stepped 
into  a  hansom  which  was  loafing  near  the  door.  It  was 
not  the  custom,  she  knew,  for  a  maid  to  wear  a  ring;  and 
this  alone  was  enough  to  amaze  her.  Was  it  possible  that 
Mary's  armour  was  not  perfect  in  every  point  of  servility? 
No  doubt  she  had  just  put  it  on  as  it  was  her  evening  out 
and  she  would  be  leaving  the  house  in  another  half  hour. 
And  then?  Would  another  and  a  stronger  hand  take  hers, 
hold  it,  twine  its  fingers  among  her  fingers?  Victoria 
wondered,  for  the  vision  of  love  and  Mary  were  incongru- 
ous ideas.  It  was  almost  inconceivable  that  with  her  cap 
and  apron  she  doffed  the  mantle  of  her  reserve;  she  surely 
could  not  vibrate;  her  heart  could  not  beat  in  unison  with 
another.  Yet,  there  was  the  ring,  the  promise  of  passion. 
Victoria  nursed  for  a  moment  the  vision  of  the  two  spec- 
tral figures,  walking  in  a  dusky  park,  arms  round  waists, 
then  of  shapes  blended  on  a  seat,  faces  hidden,  lip  to 
lip. 

Victoria  threw  herself  back  in  the  cab.  What  did  it  all 
matter  after  all?  Mary  was  the  beast  of  burden  which 
she  had  captured  by  piracy.  She  had  been  her  equal  once 
when  abiding  by  the  law;  she  had  shared  her  toil  and  her 
slender  meed  of  thanks.  Now  she  was  a  buccaneer,  out- 
side the  social  code,  and  as  such  earned  the  right  to  com- 
mand. So  much  did  Victoria  dominate  that  she  thought 
she  would  refrain  from  the  exercise  of  a  bourgeois  pre- 
rogative: the  girl  should  wear  her  ring,  even  though 
custom  forbade  it,  load  herself  with  trinkets  if  she  chose, 
for  as  a  worker  and  a  respecter  of  social  laws  surely  she 
might  well  be  treated  as  the  sacrifical  ox. 

The  horse  trotted  down  Baker  Street,  then  through 
Wigmore  Street.  Daylight  was  already  waning;  here  and 
there  houses  were  breaking  into  light  between  the  shops, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  183 

some  of  which  had  remembered  it  was  Christmas  eve  and 
decked  themselves  out  in  holly.  At  the  corner  near  the 
Bechstein  Hall  the  cab  came  to  a  stop  behind  the  long 
line  of  carriages  waiting  for  the  end  of  a  concert.  Vic- 
toria had  time  to  see  the  old  crossing  sweeper,  with  a 
smile  on  his  face  and  mistletoe  in  his  battered  billy-cock. 
The  festivities  would  no  doubt  yield  him  his  annual  kind 
word  from  the  world.  She  passed  the  carriages,  all  empty 
still.  The  cushions  were  rich,  she  could  see.  Here  and 
there  she  could  see  a  fur  coat  or  a  book  on  the  seat;  in 
one  of  them  sat  an  elderly  maid,  watching  the  carriage 
clock  under  the  electric  light,  meanwhile  nursing  a  choco- 
late pom  who  growled  as  Victoria  passed. 

"Slaves  all  of  them,"  thought  Victoria.  "A  slave  the 
good  elderly  maid,  thankful  for  the  crumbs  that  fall  from 
the  pom's  table.  Slaves,  too,  the  fat  coachman,  the  slim 
footman  despite  their  handsome  English  faces,  lit  up  by 
a  gas  lamp.  The  raw  material  of  fashion." 

The  cab  turned  into  the  greater  blaze  of  Oxford  Circus, 
past  the  Princes  Street  P.R.R.  There  was  a  great  show 
of  Christmas  cakes  there.  From  the  cab  Victoria,  craning 
out,  could  see  a  young  and  pretty  girl  behind  the  counter 
busily  packing  frosted  biscuits.  Victoria  felt  warmed  by 
the  sight;  she  was  not  malicious,  but  the  contrast  told 
her  of  her  emancipation  from  the  thrall  of  eight  bob  a 
week.  Through  Regent  Street,  all  congested  with  traffic, 
little  figures  laden  with  parcels  darting  like  frightened  ants 
under  the  horse's  nose,  then  into  the  immensity  of  White- 
hall, the  cab  stopped  at  the  Stores  in  Victoria  Street. 

Victoria  had  but  recently  joined.  A  store  ticket  and  a 
telephone  are  the  next  best  thing  to  respectability  and  the 
same  thing  as  regards  comfort.  They  go  far  to  establish 
one's  social  position.  Victoria  struggled  through  the 
wedged  crowd.  Here  and  there  boys  and  girls  with 
flushed  faces,  who  enjoyed  being  squashed.  She  could 
see  crowds  of  jolly  women  picking  from  the  counters 
things  useful  and  things  pretty;  upon  signal  discoveries 
loudly  proclaimed  followed  continual  exclamations  that 
they  would  not  do.  Family  parties,  excited  and  talkative, 
left  her  unmoved.  That  world,  that  of  the  rich  and  the 


184  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

free,  would  ultimately  be  hers;  her  past,  that  of  the  worn 
men  and  women  ministering  behind  the  counter  to  the 
whims  of  her  future  world,  was  dead. 

She  only  had  to  buy  a  few  Christmas  .presents.  There 
was  one  for  Betty,  one  for  Cairns,  and  two  for  the  ser- 
vants. In  the  clothing  department  she  selected  a  pretty 
blue  merino  dressing-gown  and  a  long  purple  sweater  for 
Betty.  The  measurements  were  much  the  same  as  hers, 
if  a  little  slighter;  besides,  such  garments  need  not  fit. 
She  went  -downstairs  and  disposed  of  the  Major  by  means 
of  a  small  gold  cigarette  case  with  a  leather  cover.  No 
doubt  he  had  a  dozen,  but  what  could  she  give  a  man? 

The  stores  buzzed  round  her  like  a  parliament  of  bees. 
Now  and  then  people  shouldered  past  -her,  a  woman  trod 
on  her  foot  and  neglected  to  apologise;  parcels,  too,  incon- 
veniently carried,  struck  her  as  she  passed.  She  felt  the 
joy  of  the  lost;  for  none  looked  at  her,  save  now  and  then 
a  man  drowned  in  the  sea  of  women.  The  atmosphere 
was  stuffy,  however,  and  time  was  precious  as  she  had  put 
off  buying  presents  until  so  late.  Followed  by  a  porter 
with  her  parcels  she  left  the  stores,  experiencing  the  pleas- 
ure of  credit  on  an  overdrawn  deposit  order  account.  The 
man  piled  the  goods  in  a  cab,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she 
had  transferred  Betty's  present  to  a  carrier's  office,  with 
instructions  to  send  them  off  at  eight  o'clock  by  a  mes- 
senger who  was  to  wait  at  the  door  until  the  addressee 
returned.  This  was  not  unnecessary  foresight,  for  Betty 
would  not  be  back  until  nine.  With  the  Major's  cigarette 
case  in  her  white  muff,  Victoria  then  drove  to  Bond  Street, 
there  to  snatch  a  cup  of  tea.  On  the  way  she  stopped  the 
cab  to  buy  a  lace  blouse  for  Mary  and  an  umbrella  for 
Charlotte,  having  forgotten  them  in  her  hurry.  She  de- 
cided to  have  tea  at  Miss  Fortesque's,  for  Miss  For- 
tesque's  is  one  of  those  tearooms  where  ladies  serve  ladies, 
and  the  newest  fashions  come.  It  is  the  right  place  to  be 
seen  in  at  five  o'clock.  At  the  door  a  small  boy  in  an 
Eton  jacket  and  collar  solemnly  salutes  with  a  shiny 
topper.  Inside,  the  English  character  of  the  room  is  em- 
phasised. There  are  no  bamboo  tables,  no  skimpy  French 
chairs  or  Japanese  umbrellas;  everything  is  severely  plain 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  185 

and  impeccably  clean.  The  wood  shines,  the  table  linen 
is  hard  and  glossy,  the  glass  is  hand  cut  and  heavy,  the 
plate  quite  plain  and  obviously  dear.  On  the  white  dis- 
tempered walls  are  colour  prints  after  Reynolds,  Romney, 
Gainsborough.  All  conspires  with  the  thick  carpet  to  pro- 
mote silence,  even  the  china  and  glass,  which  seem  no  more 
to  dare  to  rattle  than  if  they  were  used  in  a  men's  club. 

Victoria  settled  down  in  a  large  chintz-covered  arm- 
chair and  ordered  tea  from  a  good-looking  girl  in  a  dark 
grey  blouse  and  dress.  Visibly  a  hockey  skirt  had  not 
long  ago  been  more  natural  to  her.  As  she  returned  Vic- 
toria observed  the  slim  straight  lines  of  her  undeveloped 
figure.  She  was  half  graceful,  half  gawky,  like  most  young 
English  girls. 

"It's  been  very  cold  to-day,  hasn't  it?"  said  the  girl  as 
she  set  down  bread  and  butter,  then  cake  and  jam  sand- 
wiches. 

"Very,"  Victoria  looked  at  her  narrowly.  "I  suppose  it 
doesn't  matter  much  in  here,  though." 

"Oh,  no,  we  don't  notice  it."  The  girl  looked  weary 
for  a  second.  Then  she  smiled  at  Victoria  and  walked 
away  to  a  corner  where  she  stood  listlessly. 

"Slave,  slave."  The  words  rang  through  Victoria's 
head.  "You  talk  to  me  when  you're  sick  of  the  sight  of 
me.  You  talk  of  things  you  don't  care  about.  You  smile 
if  you  feel  your  face  shows  you  are  tired,  in  the  hope  I'll 
tip  you  silver  instead  of  copper." 

Victoria  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  fairly  full,  and 
as  Fortesquean  as  it  was  British.  The  Fortesque  tradition 
is  less  fluid  than  the  constitution  of  the  Empire.  Its  tables 
shout  "we  are  old  wood";  its  cups  say  "we  are  real  porce- 
lain"; and  its  customers  look  at  one  another  and  say, 
"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  Nobody  thinks  of  having  tea 
there  unless  they  have  between  one  and  three  thousand  a 
year.  It  is  too  quiet  for  ten  thousand  a  year  or  for  three 
pounds  a  week;  it  caters  for  ladies  and  gentlemen  and 
freezes  out  everybody  else,  regardless  of  turnover.  Thus 
its  congregation  (for  its  afternoon  rite  is  almost  hieratical) 
invariably  includes  a  retired  colonel,  a  dowasrer  with  a 
daughter  about  to  come  out,  several  nuiresses  who  came 


1 86  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  Miss  Fortesque's  as  little  girls  and  are  handing  on  the 
torch  to  their  own.  There  is  a  sprinkling  of  women  who 
have  been  shopping  in  Bond  Street,  buying  things  good 
but  not  showy.  As  the  customers,  or  rather  clients,  lapse 
with  a  sigh  into  the  comfortable  armchairs  they  look  round 
with  the  covert  elegance  that  says:  "And  who  the  devil 
are  you?" 

Victoria  was  in  her  element.  She  had  had  tea  at  Miss 
Fortesque's  some  dozen  years  before  when  up  for  the  week 
from  Lympton;  thus  she  felt  she  had  the  freedom  of  the 
house.  She  sipped  her  tea  and  dropped  crumbs  with  un- 
concern. She  looked  at  the  dowager  without  curiosity. 
The  dowager  speculated  as  to  the  maker  of  her  coat  and 
skirt.  Victoria's  eyes  fixed  again  on  the  girl  who  was  pass- 
ing her  with  a  laden  tray.  The  effort  was  bringing  out  the 
beautiful  lines  of  the  slender  arms,  drooping  shoulders, 
round  bust.  Her  fair  hair  clustered  low  over  the  creamy 
nape. 

"Slave,  slave,"  thought  Victoria  again.  "What  are  you 
doing,  you  fool?  Roughening  your  hands,  losing  flesh, 
growing  old.  And  there's  nothing  for  a  girl  to  do  but  serve 
on,  serve,  always  serve.  Until  you  get  too  old.  And  then, 
scrapped.  Or  you  many  .  .  .  anything  that  comes  along. 
Good  luck  to  you,  paragon,  on  your  eight  bob  a  week." 

Victoria  went  downstairs  and  got  into  the  cab,  which 
had  been  waiting  for  her  with  the  servants'  presents.  It 
was  no  longer  cold,  but  foggy  and  warm.  She  undid  her 
white  fox  stole,  dropping  on  the  seat  her  crocodile  skin 
bag,  whence  escaped  a  swollen  purse  of  gold  mesh. 

Upstairs  the  girl  cleared  away.  Under  the  butter- 
smeared  plate,  which  slipped  through  her  fingers,  she 
found  half-a-crown.  Her  heart  bounded  with  joy. 

CHAPTER  II 

"ToM,  you  know  how  I  hate  tournedos,"  said  Victoria 
petulantly. 

"Sorry,  old  girl."  Cairns  turned  and  motioned  to  the 
waiter.  While  he  was  exchanging  murmurs  with  the  man 
Victoria  observed  him.  Cairns  was  not  bad  looking,  red- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  187 

der  and  stouter  than  ever.  He  was  turning  into  the  "jolly 
old  Major"  type,  short,  broad,  strangled  in  cross  barred 
cravats  and  tight  frockcoats.  In  evening  dress,  his  face 
and  hands  emerging  from  his  shirt  and  collar,  he  looked 
like  an  enormous  dish  of  strawberries  and  cream. 

"I've  ordered  quails  for  you.  Will  that  do,  Miss 
Dainty?" 

"Yes,  that's  better." 

She  smiled  at  him  and  he  smiled  back. 

"By  jove,  Vic,"  he  whispered,  "you  look  fine.  Nothing 
like  pink  shades  for  the  complexion." 

"I  think  you're  very  rude,"  said  Victoria,  smiling. 

"Honest,"  said  Cairns.  "And  why  not?  No  harm  in 
looking  your  best,  is  there?  Now  my  -light's  yellow. 
Brings  me  down  from  tomato  to  carrot." 

"Fishing  again.    No  good,  Tommy,  old  chap." 

"Never  mind  me,"  said  Cairns  with  a  laugh.  He  paused 
and  looked  intently  at  Victoria,  then  cautiously  round 
him.  They  were  almost  in  the  -middle  of  -the  restaurant^ 
but  it  was  still  only  half  full.  Cairns  had  fixed  dinner 
for  seven,  though  they  were  only  due  for  a  music  hall; 
he  hated  to  hurry  over  his  coffee.  Thus  they  were  in  a 
little  island  of  pink  light,  surrounded  by  penumbra. 
Softly  attuned,  Mimi's  song  before  the  gates  of  Paris 
floated  in  from  the  balcony. 

"Vic,"  said  Cairns  gravely,  "you're  lovely.  I've  never 
seen  you  like  this  before." 

"Do  you  like  my  gown?"  she  asked  coquettishly. 

"Your  gown!"  Cairns  said  with  scorn.  "Your  gown's 
like  a  stalk,  Vic,  and  you're  a  big  white  flower  burst- 
ing from  it  ...  -a.  big  white  flower,  pink  flecked, 
scented.  ..." 

"Sh  .  .  .  Tom,  don't  talk  like  that  in  -here."  Victoria 
slid  her  foot  forward,  slipped  off  -her  shoe  and  gently  put 
her  foot  on  the  Major's  instep.  His  eyes  blinked  quickly 
twice.  He  reached  out  for  his  glass  and  gulped  down 
the  champagne. 

The  waiter  returned,  velvet  footed.  Every  one  of  his 
gestures  consecrated  the  quails  resting  on  the  flowered 


i88  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

white  plates,  surrounded  by  a  succulent  lake  of  aromatic 
sauce. 

They  ate  silently.  There  was  already  between  them  the 
good  understanding  which  makes  speech  unnecessary. 
Victoria  looked  about  her  from  time  to  time.  The  couples 
interested  her,  for  they  were  nearly  all  couples.  Most  of 
them  comprised  a  man  between  thirty  and  forty,  and  a 
woman  some  years  his  junior.  Their  behaviour  was  se- 
verely decorous,  in  fact  a  little  languid.  From  a  table 
nearby  a  woman's  voice  floated  lazily. 

"I  rather  like  this  pub,  Robbie." 

Indeed,  the  acceptance  of  the  pub'bishness  of  the  place 
was  -characteristic  of  its  frequenters.  Most  of  the  men 
looked  vaguely  weary;  some,  keenly  interested,  bent  over 
the  silver  laden  tables,  their  eyes  fixed  on  their  women's 
arms.  Here  and  there  a  foreigner  with  coal  black  hair, 
a  soft  shirt  front  and  a  fancy  white  waistcoat,  spiced  with 
originality  the  sedateness  of  English  gaiety.  An  Ameri- 
can woman  was  giving  herself  away  by  a  semitone,  but 
her  gown  was  exquisite  and  its  decolletage  challenged 
gravitation. 

Cairns'  attitude  was  exasperatingly  that  of  Gallio,  save 
as  concerned 'Victoria.  His  eyes  did  not  leave  her.  She 
knew  perfectly  well  that  he  was  inspecting  her,  watching 
the  rise  and  fall  on  her  white  breast  of  his  Christmas  gift, 
a  diamond  cross.  They  both  refused  the  mousse  and  Vic- 
toria mischievously  leant  forward,  her  hands  crossed  under 
her  chin,  her  arms  so  near  Cairns'  face  that  he  could  see 
on  them  the  fine  black  shading  of  the  down. 

"Well,  Tom?"  she  asked.    "Quite  happy?" 

"No,"  growled  Cairns,  "you  know  what  I  want." 

"Patience  and  shuffle  the  cards,"  -said  Victoria,  "and  be 
thankful  I'm  here  at  all.  But  I  mustn't  rot  you,  Tommy 
dear,  after  -a  present  like  that." 

She  slipped  her  fingers  under  the  diamond  cross.  Cairns 
watched  the  picture  made  by  the  rosy  manicured  finger 
nails,  the  sparkling  stones,  the  white  skin. 

"A  pity  it  doesn't  match  my  rings,"  she  remarked. 

Cairns  looked  at  her  hand. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  189 

"Oh,  no  more  it  does.  I  thought  you  had  a  half  hoop. 
Never  mind,  dear.  Give  me  that  sapphire  ring." 

"What  do  you  want  it  for?"  asked  Victoria  with  a  con- 
scious smile. 

"That's  my  business." 

She  slipped  it  off.    He  took  it,  pressing  her  fingers. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  have  a  'half  hoop,"  he  said  con- 
clusively. 

Victoria  leant  back  in  her  chair.  Her  smile  was 
triumphant.  Truly,  men  are  hard  masters  but  docile 
slaves. 

"You'll  spoil  me,  Tom,"  she  said  weakly.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  think  that  I'm  fishing  for  things.  I'm  quite 
happy,  you  know.  I'd  rather  you  didn't  give  me  -another 
ring." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Cairns,  "I  wouldn't  give  it  you  -if  I 
didn't  like  to  see  it  on  your  hand." 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said  smoothly,  but  the  phrase 
rang  true. 

Some  minutes  later,  as  they  passed  down  the  stairs  into 
the  palm  room,  she  was  conscious  of  the  eyes  that  fol- 
lowed her.  Those  of  the  men  were  mostly  a  little  dilated; 
the  women  seemed  more  cynically  interested,  as  suits  those 
who  appraise  not  bodies  but  garments.  Major  Cairns, 
walking  a  step  behind  her,  was  still  looking  well,  with  his 
close  cut  hair  and  moustache,  stiff  white  linen  and  erect 
bearing.  Victoria  realised  herself  as  a  queen  in  a  worthy 
kingdom.  But  the  kingdom  was  not  the  one  she  wished 
to  hold  with  all  the  force  of  her  beauty.  That  beauty  was 
transitory,  or  at  least  its  subtler  quality  was.  As  Victoria 
lay  in  the  brougham  with  Cairns's  arm  holding  her  close 
to  him,  she  still  remembered  that  the  fading  of  her  beauty 
might  synchronise  with  the  growth  of  her  wealth.  A 
memory  from  some  book  on  political  economy  flashed 
through  her  mind:  beauty  was  a  wasting  asset. 

Cairns  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  An  atmosphere  of  cham- 
pagne, coffee,  tobacco,  enveloped  her  as  her  breath  mixed 
with  his.  She  coiled  one  arm  round  his  neck  and  returned 
his  kisses. 

"Vic,  Vic,"  he  murmured,  "can't  you  love  me  a  little?" 


igo  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  put  her  hand  behind  his  neck  and  once  more  kissed 
his  lips.  He  must  be  lulled,  but  not  into  security. 

Victoria  had  never  realised  her  strength  and  her  free- 
dom so  well  as  that  night,  as  she  leant  back  in  her  box. 
Her  face  and  breast,  the  Major's  shirt  front,  were  the 
only  spots  of  light  which  emerged  from  the  darkness  of 
the  box  as  if  pictured  by  a  German  impressionist;  down 
below,  under  the  mist,  the  damned  souls  revelled  in  the 
cheap  seats;  they  swayed,  a  black  mass  speckled  with  hun- 
dreds of  white  collars,  dotted  with  points  of  fire  in  the 
bowls  of  pipes.  By  the  side  of  the  men,  girls  in  white 
blouses  or  crude  colours,  shrouded  in  the  mist  of  tobacco 
smoke.  Now  and  then  a  ring  coiled  up  from  a  cigar  in  the 
stalls,  swirled  in  the  air  for  a  moment  and  then  broke. 

Just  behind  the  footlights  blazing  over  the  blackness,  a 
little  fat  man,  with  preposterous  breeches,  a  coat  of  many 
colours,  a  yellow  wisp  of  hair  clashing  with  his  vinous 
nose,  sang  of  the  bank  and  his  manifold  accounts.  A 
faint  salvo  of  applause  ushered  him  out,  then  swelled  into 
a  tempest  as  the  next  number  went  up. 

"Tommy  Bung,  you're  in  luck,"  said  the  Major,  taking 
off  Victoria's  wrap. 

She  craned  forward  to  see.  A  woman  with  masses  of 
fair  hair,  bowered  in  blue  velvet,  took  a  long  look  at  her 
from  the  stage  box  through  an  opera  glass. 

The  curtain  went  up.  There  was  a  roar  of  applause. 
Tommy  Bung  was  ready  for  the  audience  and  had  already 
fallen  into  a  tub  of  whitewash.  The  sorry  object  extri- 
cated itself.  His  red  nose  shone,  star  like.  He  rolled 
ferocious  eyes  at  the  girl.  The  crowd  rocked  with  joy. 
Without  a  word  the  great  Tommy  Bung  began  to  dance. 
At  once  the  hall  followed  the  splendid  metre.  Up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  twisting,  curvetting,  Tommy  Bung 
held  his  audience  spellbound  with  rhythm.  They  swayed 
sharply  with  the  alternations. 

Victoria  watched  the  Major.  His  hands  were  beating 
time.  Tommy  Bung  brought  his  efforts  to  a  conclusion 
by  beating  the  floor,  the  soles  of  his  feet,  the  scenery,  and 
punctuated  the  final  thwack  with  a  well-timed  leap  on 
the  prompter's  box. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  191 

Victoria  was  losing  touch  with,  things.  Waves  of  heat 
seemed  to  overwhelm  her;  little  figures  of  jugglers,  gym- 
nasts, performing  dogs,  passed  before  her  eyes  like  ara- 
besques. Then  again  raucous  voices.  The  crowd  was  ap- 
plauding hysterically.  It  was  Number  Fourteen,  whose 
great  name  she  was  fated  never  to  know.  Unsteadily 
poised  on  legs  wide  apart,  Number  Fourteen  sang.  Un- 
controllable glee  radiated  from  him — 

Now  kids  is  orl  right 

When  yer  ain't  got  none; 

Yer  can  sit  at  'ome 

An'  eat  'cher  dam  bun. 

I've  just  'ad  some  twins; 

Nurse  says  don't  be  coy, 

For  they're  just  the  picture 

Of  the  lodger's  boy. 

Tinka,  Tinka,  Tinka;  Tinka,  Tinka,  Tink 
'It  'im  in  the  eye  and  made  the  lodger  blink. 
Tinga,  Tinga,  Tinga;  Tinga,  Tinga,  Teg 
Never  larfed  so  much  since  farver  broke  'is  leg. 

A  roar  of  applause  encouraged  him.  Victoria  saw  Cairns 
carried  away,  clapping,  laughing.  In  the  bar  below  she 
could  hear  continuously  the  thud  of  the  levers  belching 
beer.  Number  Fourteen  was  still  singing,  his  smile  wide- 
slit  through  his  face — 

Now  me  paw-in-law 

'E's  a  rum  ole  bloke; 

Got  a  'and  as  light 

As  a  ton  o'  coke. 

Came  'ome  late  one  night 

An'  what  oh  did  'e  see? 

Saw  me  ma-in-law 

On  the  lodger's  knee. 

Tinka,  Tinka,  Tinka;  Tinka,  Tinka,  Tink 
'It  'im  in  the  eye  an'  made  the  lodger  blink. 
Tinga,  Tinga,  Tinga;  Tinga,  Tinga,  Teg, 
Never  larfed  so  much  since  farver  broke  'is  leg. 


192  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Enthusiasm  was  rising  high.  Number  Fourteen  braced 
himself  for  his  great  effort  on  the  effects  of  beer.  Then, 
gracious  and  master  of  the  crowd,  he  beat  time  with  his 
hands  while  the  chorus  sounded  from  a  thousand  throats. 
Victoria  happened  to  look  at  Cairns.  His  head  was  beat- 
ing time  and,  from  his  lips  issued  gleefully: 

Tinka,  Tinka,  Tinka;  Tinka,  Tinka,  Tink 
'It  'im  in  the  eye — 

Victoria  scrutinised  him  narrowly.  Cairns  was  a  phe- 
nomenon. 

"Never  larfed  so  much  since  farver  broke  'is  leg," 
roared  Cairns.  "I  say,  Vic,  he  really  is  good."  He  no- 
ticed her  puzzled  expression.  "I  say,  Vic,  what's  up? 
Don't  you  like  him?" 

Victoria  did  not  answer  for  a  second. 

"Oh,  yes,  I — he's  very  funny — you  see  I've  never  been 
in  a  music  hall  before." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  Cairns's  brow  cleared.  "It's  a  little 
coarse,  but  so  natural." 

"Is  that  the  same  thing?"  asked  Victoria. 

"S'pose  it  is.  With  some  of  us  anyhow.  But  what's 
the  next?" 

Cairns  had  already  relapsed  into  the  programme.  He 
hated  the  abstract;  a  public  school,  Sandhurst  and  the 
army  had  armoured  him  magnificently  against  intrusive 
thought.  They  watched  the  next  turn  silently.  A  couple 
of  cross- talk  comedians,  one  a  shocking  creature  in  pegtop 
trousers,  a  shock  yellow  head  and  a  battered  opera  hat, 
the  other  young,  handsome  and  smart  as  a  superior  bar- 
ber's assistant,  gibbered  incomprehensibly  of  songs  they 
couldn't  sing  and  lies  they  could  tell. 

The  splendid  irresponsibility  of  the  music  hall  was 
wasted  on  Victoria.  She  had  the  mind  of  a  school-mistress 
grafted  on  a  social  sense.  She  saw  nothing  before  her  but 
the  gross  riot  of  the  drunken.  She  saw  no  humour  in 
that  cockney  cruelty,  capable  though  it  be  of  absurd  gen- 
erosity. She  resented,  too,  Cairns's  boyish  pleasure  in  it 
all;  he  revelled,  she  felt,  as  a  buffalo  wallows  in  a  mud 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  193 

bath.  He  was  gross,  stupid,  dull.  It  was  degrading  to  be 
his  instrument  of  pleasure.  But,  after  all,  what  did  it 
matter?  He  was  the  narrow  way  which  would  lead  her 
to  the  august. 

Though  Cairns  was  not  thin-skinned,  he  perceived  a 
little  of  this.  Without  a  word  he  watched  the  cross-talk 
comedians,  then  the  "Dandy  Girl  of  Cornucopia,"  a  rain- 
bow of  stiff  frills  with  a  voice  like  a  fretsaw.  As  the  lights 
went  down  for  the  bioscope,  the  idea  of  reconciliation  that 
springs  from  fat,  cheery  hearts  overwhelmed  him.  He 
put  his  hand  out  and  closed  it  over  hers.  With  a  tre- 
mendous effort  she  repressed  her  repulsion,  and  in  so  doing 
won  her  victory.  In  the  darkness  Cairns  threw  his  arms 
round  her.  He  drew  her  towards  him,  moved,  the  least 
bit  hysterical.  As  if  fearful  of  losing  her  he  crushed  her 
against  his  shirt  front. 

Victoria  did  not  resist  him.  Her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
blackness  of  the  roof  she  submitted  to  the  growing  bru- 
tality of  his  kisses  on  her  neck,  her  shoulders,  her  cheeks. 
Pressed  close  against  him  she  did  not  withdraw  her  knees 
from  the  grasp  of  his. 

"Kiss  me,"  whispered  Cairns  imperiously. 

She  cast  down  her  eyes;  she  could  hardly  see  his  face 
in  the  darkness,  nothing  but  the  glitter  of  his  eyeballs. 
Then,  unhurried  and  purposeful,  she  pressed  her  lips  to 
his.  The  lights  went  up  again.  Many  of  the  crowd  were 
stirring;  Victoria  stretched  out  her  arms  in  a  gesture  of 
weariness. 

"Let's  go  home,  Vic,"  said  Cairns,  "you're  tired." 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not  tired,"  she  said.  "I  don't  mind  stay- 
ing." 

"Well,  you're  bored." 

"No,  not  at  all,  it's  quite  interesting,"  said  Victoria 
judicially. 

"Come  along,  Vic,"  said  Cairns  sharply.    He  got  up. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  His  face  was  redder,  more 
swollen  than  it  had  been  half-an-hour  before.  His  eyes 
followed  every  movement  of  her  arms  and  shoulders. 
With  a  faint  smile  of  understanding  and  the  patience  of 
those  who  play  lone  hands,  she  got  up  and  let  him  put  on 


194  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  wrap.  As  she  put  it  on  she  made  him  feel  against 
his  fingers  the  sweep  of  her  arms;  she  rested  for  a  moment 
her  shoulder  against  his. 

In  the  cab  they  did  not  exchange  a  word.  Victoria's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  leaden  sky;  she  was  this  man's 
prey.  But,  after  all,  one  man's  prey  or  another?  The 
prey  of  those  who  demand  bitter  toil  from  the  charwoman, 
the  female  miner,  the  P.R.R.  girl;  or  of  those  who  want 
kisses,  soft  flesh,  pungent  scents,  what  did  it  all  amount 
to?  And,  in  Oxford  Street,  a  sky  sign  in  the  shape  of  a 
horse-shoe  advertising  whisky  suddenly  reminded  her  of 
the  half  hoop,  a  step  towards  that  capital  which  meant 
freedom.  No,  she  was  not  the  prey — at  least,  not  in  the 
sense  of  the  bait  which  finally  captures  the  salmon. 

Cairns  had  not  spoken  a  word.  Victoria  looked  at  him 
furtively.  His  hands  were  clenched  before  him;  in  his 
eyes  shone  an  indomitable  purpose.  He  was  going  to  the 
feast  and  he  would  foot  the  bill.  On  arriving  at  Elm. 
Tree  Place  he  walked  at  once  into  his  dressing-room,  while 
Victoria  went  into  her  bedroom.  She  knew  his  mood  well 
and  knew,  too,  that  he  would  not  be  long.  She  did  not 
fancy  overmuch  the  scene  she  could  conjure  up.  In  an- 
other minute  or  two  he  would  come  in  with  the  culture  of 
a  thousand  years  ground  down,  smothered  beneath  the 
lava-like  flow  of  animalism.  He  would  come  with  his 
hands  shaking,  ready  to  be  cruel  in  the  exaction  of  his 
rights.  She  hovered  between  repulsion  and  an  anxiety 
which  was  almost  anticipation;  Cairns  was  the  known 
and  the  unknown  at  once.  But  whatever  his  demands  they 
should  be  met  and  satisfied,  for  business  is  business  and 
its  justification  is  profits.  So  Victoria  braced  herself  and, 
with  feverish  activity,  twisted  up  her  hair,  sprayed  herself 
with  scent,  jumped  into  bed  and  turned  out  the  light. 

As  she  did  so  the  door  opened.  She  was  conscious  for 
a  fraction  of  a  second  of  die  bright  quadrilateral  of  the 
open  door  where  Cairns  stood  framed,  a  broad  black  sil- 
houette. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  195 


CHAPTER  III 

"YES,  I'm  a  lucky  beggar,"  soliloquised  Cairns.  He 
gave  a  tug  to  the  leads  at  which  two  Pekingese  spaniels 
were  straining.  "Come  along,  you  little  brutes,"  he 
growled.  The  spaniels,  intent  upon  a  piece  of  soiled 
brown  paper  in  the  gutter,  refused  to  move. 

"Obstinate,  sir,"  said  a  policeman  respectfully. 

"Devilish.    Simply  devilish'.    Fine  day,  isn't  it?" 

"Blowing  up  for  rain,  sir." 

"Maybe.    Come  along,  Snoo;  that'll  do." 

Cairns  dragged  the  dogs  up  the  road.  Snoo  and  Poo, 
husband  and  wife,  had  suddenly  fascinated  him  in  Villiers 
Street  that  morning.  He  was  on  his  way  to  offer  them  at 
Victoria's  shrine.  Instinctively  he  liked  the  smart  dog,  as 
he  liked  the  smart  woman  and  the  American  novel.  Snoo 
and  Poo,  tiny,  fat,  curly,  khaki-coloured,  with  their  flat 
Kalmuck  faces,  unwillingly  trundled  behind  him.  They 
would,  thought  Cairns,  be  in  keeping  with  the  establish- 
ment. A  pleasant  establishment.  A  nice  little  house,  in 
its  quiet  street  where  nothing  ever  seemed  to  pass,  except 
every  hour  or  so  a  cab.  It  was  better  than  a  home,  for  it 
offered  all  that  a  home  offers,  soft  carpets,  discreet  ser- 
vants, nice  little  lunches  among  flowers  and  well-cleaned 
plate,  and  beyond,  something  that  no  home  contains.  It 
was  adventurous.  Cairns  had  knocked  about  the  world  a 
good  deal  and  had  collected  sensations  as  finer  natures 
collect  thoughts.  The  women  of  the  past  met  and  caressed 
on  steam-boats,  in  hotels  at  Cairo,  Singapore  and  Cape 
Town,  the  tea  gardens  of  Kobe  and  the  stranger  mysteries 
of  Zanzibar,  all  this  had  left  him  weary  and  sighing  for 
something  like  the  English  home.  Indeed,  he  grew  more 
sentimental  as  he  thought  of  Dover  cliffs  every  time  his 
tailor  called  the  measurement  of  his  girth.  An  extra 
quarter  of  an  inch  invariably  coincided  with  a  sentimental 
pang.  Cairns,  however,  would  not  yet  have  been  capable 
of  settling  down  in  a  hunting  county  with  a  well-connected 
wife,  a  costly  farming  experiment  and  the  shilling  week- 
lies. A  transition  was  required;  he  had  no  gift  of  intro- 


196  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

spection,  but  his  relations  with  Victoria  were  expressions 
of  this  mood.  Thus  he  was  happy. 

He  never  entered  the  little  house  in  Elm  Tree  Place 
without  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  Under  the  placid  mask  of 
its  respectability  and  all  that  went  with  it,  clean  white 
steps,  half  curtains,  bulbs  in  the  window  boxes,  there 
flowed  for  him  a  swift,  hot  stream.  And  in  that  stream 
flourished  a  beautiful  white  lily  whose  petals  opened  and 
smiled  at  will. 

"I  wonder  whether  I'm  in  love  with  her?"  This  was 
a  frequent  subject  for  Cairns's  meditations.  Victoria 
was  so  much  more  for  him  than  any  other  woman  had 
been  that  he  always  hesitated  to  answer.  She  charmed 
him  sensually,  but  other  women  had  done  likewise;  she 
was  beautiful,  but  he  could  conceive  of  greater  beauty. 
Her  intellect  he  did  not  consider,  for  he  was  almost  un- 
aware of  it.  For  him  she  was  clever,  in  the  sense  that 
women  are  clever  in  men's  eyes  when  they  can  give  a 
smart  answer,  understand  Bradshaw  and  order  a  possible 
combination  at  a  restaurant.  What  impressed  him  was 
Victoria's  coolness,  the  balance  of  her  unhurried  mind. 
Now  and  then  he  caught  her  reading  curious  books,  such 
as  Smiles's  Self-Help,  Letters  of  a  Selj-Made  Merchant 
to  his  Son  and  Thus  Spake  Zara.  .  .  .  Something,  by  a 
man  with  a  funny  name;  but  this  was  all  part  of  her 
character  and  of  its  novelty.  He  did  not  worry  to  scratch 
the  surface  of  this  brain ;  virgin  soils  did  not  interest  him 
in  the  mental  sense.  Sometimes,  when  he  enounced  a 
political  opinion  or  generalised  on  the  problems  of  the 
day  as  stated  in  the  morning  paper,  he  would  find,  a  little 
uneasily,  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  a  strangely  interested 
look.  But  her  eyelids  would  at  once  be  lowered  and  her 
lips  would  part,  showing  a  little  redder  and  moister,  caus- 
ing his  heart  to  beat  quicker,  and  he  would  forget  his 
perplexity  as  he  took  her  hand  and  stroked  her  arm  with 
gentle  insistence. 

Cairns  dragged  Snoo  and  Poo  up  the  steps  of  the  little 
house  still  grumbling,  panting  and  protesting  that,  as 
drawing-room  dogs,  they  objected  to  exercise  in  any  form. 
He  had  a  latchkey,  but  always  refrained  from  using  it. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  197 

He  liked  to  ring  the  bell,  to  feel  like  a  guest.  It  would 
have  been  commonplace  to  enter  his  hall  and  hang  up  his 
hat  on  his  peg.  That  would  have  been  home  and  home 
only.  To  ask  whether  Mrs.  Ferris  was  in  was  more  ad- 
venturous, for  she  might  be  out.  And  if  she  expected  him, 
then  it  was  an  assignation;  adventure  again. 

The  unimposing  Mary  let  him  in.  For  a  fraction  of  a 
second  she  looked  at  the  Major,  then  at  the  floor. 

"Mrs.  Ferris  in?" 

"Yes,  sir,  Mrs.  Ferris  is  in  the  boudoir."  Mary's  voice 
fell  on  the  last  necessary  word  like  a  dropgate.  She  had 
been  asked  a  question  and  answered  it.  That  was  the 
end  of  it.  Cairns  was  the  master  of  her  mistress.  What 
respect  she  oWed  was  paid. 

Cairns  deposited  his  hat  and  coat  in  Mary's  hands. 
Then,  lifting  Snoo  under  one  arm  and  Poo  under  the  other, 
both  grumbling  vigorously  and  kicking  with  their  hind 
legs,  he  walked  to  the  boudoir  and  pushed  it  open  with  his 
shoulder.  Victoria  was  sitting  at  the  little  bureau  writing 
a  letter.  Cairns  watched  her  for  two  seconds,  rejoicing  in 
the  firm  white  moulding  of  her  neck,  in  the  dark  tendrils 
of  hair  clustering  low,  dwindling  into  the  central  line  of 
down  which  tells  of  breeding  and  health.  Then  Victoria 
turned  round  sharply. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp.  "Oh,  Tom,  the 
ducks!" 

Cairns  laughed  and,  walking  up  to  her,  dropped  Snoo 
on  her  lap  and  Poo,  snuffling  ferociously,  on  the  floor. 
Victoria  buried  her  hands  in  Snoo's  thick  coat;  the  dog 
gurgled  joyfully  and  rolled  over  on  its  side.  Victoria 
laughed,  muzzling  Snoo  with  her  hand. 

Cairns  watched  the  picture  for  a  moment.  He  was  ab- 
surdly reminded  of  a  girl  in  Java  who  nursed  a  black 
marmoset  against  her  yellow  breast.  And  as  Victoria 
looked  up  at  him,  her  chin  now  resting  on  Snoo's  brown 
head,  a  soft  wave  of  scent  rose  towards  him.  He  knelt 
down,  throwing  his  arms  round  her  and  the  dog,  gathering 
them  both  into  his  embrace.  As  his  lips  met  hers  and 
clung  to  them,  her  perfume  and  the  ranker  scent  of  the 
dog  filled  his  nostrils,  burning  aphrodisiac  into  his  brain. 


ip8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  freed  herself  gently  and  rose  to  her  feet,  still 
nursing  Snoo,  and  laughingly  pushed  him  into  Caims's 
face. 

"Kiss  him,"  she  said,  "no  favours  here." 

Cairns  obeyed,  then  picked  up  Poo  and  sat  down  on  the 
couch. 

"This  is  sweet  of  you,  Tom,"  said  Victoria.  "They  are 
lovebirds." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  them;  this  is  Poo  I'm  holding,  yours 
is  Snoo." 

"Odd  names,"  said  Victoria. 

Chinese  according  to  the  dealer,"  said  Cairns,  "but  I 
don't  pretend  to  know  what  they  mean." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Victoria,  "they're  lovebirds,  and  so 
are  you,  Tom." 

Cairns  looked  at  her  silently,  at  her  full  erect  figure  and 
smiling  eyes.  He  was  a  lucky  beggar,  a  damned  lucky 
beggar. 

"And  what  is  this  bribe  for?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Knew  you'd  like  them,  beastly  tempers 
and  as  game  as  mice.  Women's  dogs,  you  know." 

"Generalising  again,  Tom.    Besides,  I  hate  mice." 

Cairns  drew  her  down  by  his  side  on  the  couch.  Every- 
thing in  this  woman  interested  and  stimulated  him.  She 
was  always  fresh,  always  young.  The  touch  of  her  hand, 
the  smell  of  her  hair,  the  feel  of  her  skirts  winding  round 
his  ankles,  all  that  was  magic;  every  little  act  of  hers  was 
a  taking  of  possession.  Every  time  he  mirrored  his  face 
in  her  eyes  and  saw  the  eyelids  slowly  veil  and  unveil 
them,  something  like  love  crept  into  his  soul.  But  every 
passionate  embrace  left  him  weak  and  almost  repelled. 
She  was  his  property;  he  had  paid  for  her;  and,  insistent 
thought,  what  would  she  have  done  if  he  had  not  been 
rich? 

Half  an  hour  passed  away.  Victoria  lay  passive  in  his 
arms.  Snoo  and  Poo,  piled  in  a  heap,  were  snuffling 
drowsily.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door,  then  a  slam. 
They  could  hear  voices.  They  started  up. 

"Who  the  deuce  .  .  .?"  said  Cairns. 

Then  they  heard  someone  in  the  dining-room  beyond 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  199 

the  door.    There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  boudoir. 

"Come  in,"  said  Victoria. 

Mary  entered.  Her  placid  eyes  passed  over  the 
Major's  tie,  which  had  burst  out  of  his  waistcoat,  Vic- 
toria's tumbled  hair. 

"Mr.  Wren,  mum,"  she  said. 

Victoria  staggered.  Her  hands  knotted  themselves  to- 
gether convulsively. 

"Good  God,"  she  whispered. 

"Who  is  it?  What  does  he  want?  What  name  did 
you  say?"  asked  Cairns.  Victoria's  excitement  was  in- 
fecting him-. 

Victoria  did  not  answer.  Mary  stood  before  them,  her 
eyes  downcast  before  the  drama.  She  was  waiting  for 
orders. 

"Can't  you  speak?"  growled  Cairns.    "Who  is  it?" 

Victoria  found  .her  voice  at  last. 

"My  brother,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

Cairns  did  not  say  a  word.  He  walked  once  up  and 
down  the  room,  stopped  before  the  mirror  to  settle  his 
tie.  Then  turned  to  Mary. 

"Tell  the  gentleman  Mrs.  Ferris  can't  see  him." 

Mary  turned  to  go.  There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  in 
the  dining-room.  The  button  of  the  door  turned  twice  as 
if  somebody  was  trying  to  open  it.  The  door  was  locked 
but  Cairns  almost  leaped  towards  it.  Victoria  stopped 
him. 

"No,"  she  said,  "let  me  have  it  out.  Tell  Mr.  Wren 
I'm  coming,  Mary." 

Mary  turned  away.  The  incident  was  fading  from  her 
mind  as  a  stone  fades  away  as  it  falls  into  an  abyss.  Vic- 
toria clung  to  Cairns  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Tom,  go  away,  go  away.  Come  back  in  an  hour.  I 
beg  you." 

"No,  old  girl,  I'm  going  to  see  you  through,"  said  Cairns 
doggedly. 

"No,  no,  don't."  There  was  fear  in  her  voice.  "I 
must  have  it  out.  Go  away,  for  my  sake,  Tom." 

She  pushed  him  gently  into  the  hall,  forced  him  to  pick 
up  his  hat  and  stick  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She 


200  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

braced  herself  for  the  effort;  for  a  second  the  staircase 
shivered  before  her  eyes  like  a  road  in  the  heat. 

"Now  for  it,"  she  said,  "I'm  in  for  a  row." 

A  pleasant  little  tingle  was  in  her  veins.  She  opened 
the  dining-room  door.  It  was  not  very  light.  There  was 
a  slight  singing  in  her  ears.  She  saw  nothing  before  her 
except  a  man's  legs  clad  in  worn  grey  trousers  where  the 
knees  jutted  forward  sharply.  With  an  effort  she  raised 
her  eyes  and  looked  Edward  in  the  face. 

He  was  pale  and  thin  as  ever.  A  ragged  wisp  of  yellow 
hair  hung  over  the  left  side  of  his  forehead.  He  peered 
at  her  through  his  silver-mounted  glasses.  His  hands 
were  twisting  at  his  watch  chain,  quickly,  nervously,  like 
a  mouse  in  a  wheel.  As  she  looked  at  his  weak  mouth  his 
insignificance  was  revealed  to  her.  Was  this,  this  crea- 
ture with  the  vague  idealistic  face,  the  high  shoulders, 
something  to  be  afraid  of?  Pooh! 

"Well,  Edward?"  she  said,  involuntarily  aggressive. 

Wren  did  not  answer.  His  hands  suddenly  stopped  re- 
volving. 

"Well,  Edward?"  she  repeated.    "So  you've  found  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  ...  Yes,  I've  found 
you."  The  movement  of  his  hands  began  again. 

"Well?" 

"I  know.     I've  found  out.  ...  I  went  to  Finsbury." 

"Oh?  I  suppose  you  mean  you  tracked  me  from  my 
old  rooms.  I  suppose  Betty  told  you  I  ...  my  new  oc- 
cupation." 

Wren  jumped. 

"Damn,"  he  growled.    "Damn  you." 

Victoria  smiled.  Edward  swearing.  It  was  too  funny. 
What  an  awful  thing  it  was  to  have  a  sense  of  humour. 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,"  she  said  smoothly. 
"But  what  do  you  want?" 

"How  dare  you?"  growled  Edward.  "A  woman  like 
you.  .  .  ." 

A  hard  look  came  into  Victoria's  eyes. 

"That  will  do,  Edward,  I  know  my  own  business." 

"Yes,  a  dirty  business."  A  hot  flush  spread  over  the 
man's  thin  cheeks. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  201 

"You  little  cur."  Victoria  smiled;  she  could  feel  her 
lips  baring  her  eye  teeth.  "Fool." 

Edward  stared  at  her.    Passion  was  stifling  his  words. 

"It's  a  lot  you  know  about  life,  schoolmaster,"  she 
sneered.  "Who  are  you  to  preach  at  me?  Is  it  your 
business  if  I  choose  to  sell  my  body  instead  of  selling  my 
labour?" 

"You're  disgraced."  His  voice  went  down  to  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "Disgraced." 

Victoria  felt  a  wave  of  heat  pass  over  her  body. 

"Disgraced,  you  fool!  Will  anybody  ever  teach  you 
what  disgrace  is?  There's  no  such  thing  as  disgrace  for 
a  woman.  All  women  are  disgraced  when  they're  born. 
We're  parasites,  toys.  That's  all  we  are.  You've  got  two 
kinds  of  uses  for  us,  lords  and  masters!  One  kind  is 
honourable  labour,  as  you  say,  namely  the  work  under- 
taken by  what  you  call  the  lower  classes;  the  other's  a 
share  in  the  nuptial  couch,  whether  illegal  or  legal.  Yes, 
your  holy  matrimony  is  only  lanother  name  for  my  pro- 
fession.'' 

"You've  no  right  to  say  that,"*  cried  Edward.  "You're 
trying  to  drag  down  marriage  to  your  level.  When  a 
woman  marries  she  gives  herself  because  she  loves;  then 
her  sacrifice  is  sublime."  He  stopped  for  a  second.  Ideal- 
ism, sentimentalism,  other  names  for  ignorance  of  life, 
clashed  in  his  self-conscious  brain  without  producing  light. 
"Oh,  Victoria,"  he  said,  "you  don't  know  how  awful  it  is 
for  me  to  find  you  like  this,  my  little  sister  ...  of  course, 
you  can't  love  him  ...  if  you'd  married  him  it  would 
have  been  different." 

"Ah,  Edward,  so  that's  your  philosophy.  You  say  that 
though  I  don't  love  him,  if  I'd  married  him  it  would  have 
been  different.  So  you  won't  let  me  surrender  to  a  man 
unless  I  can  trick  him  or  goad  him  into  binding  himself 
to  me  for  life.  If  I  don't  love  him  I  may  marry  him  and 
make  his  life  a  hell  and  I  shall  be  a  good  woman;  but  I 
mustn't  live  with  him  illegally  so  that  he  may  stick  to  me 
only  so  long  as  he  cares  for  me." 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  stammered  Edward.    "Of  course, 


202  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

it's  wrong  to  marry  a  man  you  don't  care  for  ...  but 
marriage  is  different,  it  sanctifies." 

"Sanctifies!  Nothing  sanctifies  anything.  Our  deeds 
are  holy  or  unholy  in  themselves.  Oh,  understand  me 
well,  I  claim  no  ethical  revelation;  I  don't  care  whether 
my  deeds  are  holy  or  not.  I  judge  nothing,  not  even  my- 
self. All  I  say  is  that  your  holy  bond  is  a  farce;  if 
women  were  free — that  is.  trained,  able  and  allowed  to 
earn  fair  wages  for  fair  labour — then  marriage  might  be 
holy.  But  marriage  for  a  woman  is  a  monetary  contract. 
It  means  that  she  is  kept,  clothed,  amused;  she  is  petted 
like  a  favourite  dog,  indulged  like  a  spoiled  child.  In  ex- 
change she  gives  her  body." 

"No,  no." 

"Yes,  yes.  And  the  difference  between  a  married 
woman  and  me  is  her  superior  craft,  her  ability  to  secure 
a  grip  upon  a  man.  You  respect  her  because  she  is  per- 
manent, as  you  respect  a  vested  interest." 

The  flush  rose  again  in  Edward's  cheeks.  As  he  lost 
ground  he  fortified  his  obstinacy. 

"You've  sold  yourself,"  he  said  quickly,  "gone  down 
into  the  gutter.  .  .  .  Oh!" 

"The  gutter!"  Victoria  was  so  full  of  contempt  that 
it  almost  hurt  her.  "Of  course  I'm  in  the  gutter.  I  al- 
ways was  in  the  gutter.  I  was  in  the  gutter  when  I 
married  and  my  husband  boarded  and  lodged  me  to  be  his 
favourite.  I  was  in  the  gutter  when  I  had  to  kow-tow  to 
underbred  people;  to  be  a  companion  is  to  prostitute 
friendship.  You  don't  mind  that,  do  you?  I  was  in  the 
gutter  in  the  tea  shops,  when  I  decoyed  men  into  coming 
to  the  place  because  they  could  touch  me,  breathe  me. 
I'm  in  the  gutter  now,  but  I'm  in  the  right  one.  I've 
found  the  one  that's  going  to  make  me  free." 

Edward  was  shaken  by  her  passion. 

"You'll  never  be  free,"  he  faltered,  "you're  an  outcast." 

"An  outcast  from  what?"  sneered  Victoria.  "From  so- 
ciety? What  has  society  done  for  me?  It's  kicked  me, 
it's  bled  me.  It's  made  me  work  ten  hours  a  day  for 
eight  bob  a  week.  It'd  have  sucked  me  dry  and  offered 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  203 

me  the  workhouse,  or  the  Thames  at  the  end.  It  made 
me  almost  a  cripple." 

Edward  stared. 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria  savagely.  "That  makes  you 
squirm,  sentimentalist.  Look  at  that!" 

She  put  her  foot  on  a  chair,  tucked  up  her  skirt,  tore 
down  the  stocking.  Purplish  still,  the  veins  stood  out  on 
the  firm  white  flesh. 

Edward  clenched  both  his  hands  and  looked  away.  A 
look  of  pain  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  look  at  that,"  raged  Victoria.  "That's  what  your 
society's  done  for  me.  It's  chucked  me  into  the  water 
to  teach  me  to  swim,  and  it's  gloated  over  every  choke. 
It's  fine  talking  about  chivalry,  isn't  it,  when  you  see 
what  honest  labour's  done  for  me,  isn't  it?  It's  fine  talk- 
ing about  purity  when  you  see  the  price  your  society  pays 
me  for  being  what  I  am,  isn't  it?  Look  at  me.  Look  at 
my  lace,  look  at  my  diamonds,  look  at  my  house  .  .  .  and 
think  of  the  other  side:  eight  bob  a  week,  ten  hours'  work 
a  day,  a  room  with  no  fire,  and  a  bed  with  no  sheets.  But 
I  know  your  society  now,  and  as  I  can't  kill  it  I'll  cheat  it. 
I've  served  it  and  it's  got  two  years  of  my  life;  but  I'm 
going  to  get  enough  out  of  it  to  make  it  crawl." 

She  strode  towards  Edward. 

"So  don't  you  come  preaching  to  me,"  she  hissed. 

Edward's  head  bent  down.  Slowly  he  walked  towards 
the  door. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "go.  I've  no  use  for  you.  I'm  out  for 
stronger  meat." 

He  opened  the  door,  then,  without  looking  up, 

"Good-bye,"  he  said. 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  Victoria  looked  about 
her  for  some  seconds,  then  sat  down  in  the  carving  chair, 
her  arms  outstretched  on  the  table.  Her  teeth  were 
clenched  now,  her  jaw  set;  with  indomitable  purpose  she 
looked  out  into  the  darkening  room  where  she  saw  the 
battle  and  victory  of  life. 


204  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

CHAPTER  IV 

VICTORIA  had  never  loved  adventure  for  its  own  sake. 
The  change  from  drudgery  to  leisure  was  grateful  as  was 
all  it  brought  in  the  shape  of  pretty  clothes,  jewels  and 
savoury  dishes;  but  she  realised  every  day  better  that, 
taking  it  as  a  profession,  her  career  was  no  great  success. 
It  afforded  her  a  fair  livelihood,  but  the  wasting  asset  of 
her  beauty  could  not  be  replaced;  thus  it  behoved  her  to 
amortize  its  value  at  a  rapid  rate.  She  felt  much  better 
in  health;  her  varicose  veins  had  gone  down  a  good  deal, 
but  she  still  preserved  a  dark  mystery  about  them;  after 
six  months  of  intimate  'association,  Cairns  did  not  yet 
know  why  he  had  never  seen  Victoria  without  her  stock- 
ings. Being  rrfan  of  the  world  enough  to  know  that  dis- 
cretion is  happiness,  he  had  never  pressed  the  point;  a 
younger  or  more  sensitive  man  would  have  torn  away  the 
veil,  so  as  to  achieve  total  intimacy  at  the  risk  of  wreck- 
ing it.  He  was  not  of  these,  and  vaguely  Victoria  did  not 
thank  him  for  a  sentiment  half  discreet,  half  indifferent; 
such  an  attitude  for  a  lover  suggested  "^regard  for  essen- 
tials. As  she  grew  stronger  and  healthier  her  brain  worked 
more  clearly,  and  she  began  to  realise  that  even  ten  years 
of  association  with  this  man  would  yield  no  'more  than  a 
pittance.  And  it  would  be  difficult  to  'hold  him  for  ten 
years. 

Victorfa  certainly  went  ably  to  work  to  preserve  for 
Cairns  the  feeling  of  novelty  and  adventure.  It  was  prac- 
tically in  deference  to  her  suggestions  that  he  retained  his 
chambers;  'he  soon  realised  her  wisdom  and  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  their  life.  He  still  understood  very  well  the 
pleasure  of  being  her  guest.  Victoria  found  no  decline  in 
his  desire;  perhaps  it  was  less  fiery,  but  it  was  as  coarse 
and  as  constant.  Certainly  she  was  woman  for  him  rather 
than  merely  a  woman;  moreover  she  was  a  habit.  Vic- 
toria saw  this  clearly  enough  and  resolved  to  make  the 
most  of  it. 

In  accordance  with  her  principles  she  kept  her  ex- 
penses down.  She  would  not  even  allow  herself  the  luxury 
of  a  maid;  she  found  it  cheaper  to  pay  Mary  higher 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  205 

wages.  When  Cairns  was  not  expected  her  lunch  was  of 
the  simplest,  and  Charlotte  discovered  with  amazement 
that  her  rakish  mistress  could  check  a  grocer's  book.  Vic- 
toria was  not  even  above  cheating  the  Water  Board  by 
omitting  to  register  her  garden  tap.  All  these,  however, 
were  petty  economies;  they  would  result  in  a  saving  of 
perhaps  three  hundred  a  year,  a  beggarly  sum  when  pitted 
against  the  uncertainties  of  her  profession. 

She  realised  all  this  within  three  or  four  months  of  her 
new  departure,  and  promptly  decided  that  Cairns  must  be 
made  to  yield  a  higher  revenue.  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  very  well  tell  him  that  a  thousand  a  year  was  not 
enough ;  on  the  face  of  it  it  was  ample.  It  was  necessary 
therefore  to  launch  out  a  little.  The  first  step  was  to 
increase  her  visible  supply  of  clothes,  and  this  was  easily 
done  by  buying  the  cheap  and  effective  instead  of  the  ex- 
pensive and  good.  Cairns  knew  enough  about  women's 
clothes  to  detect  this  now  and  then,  'but  the  changes  be- 
wildered him  a  little  and  he  had  some  difficulty  in  seeing 
the  difference  between  the  latest  thing  and  the  cheapest. 
Whenever  she  was  with  him  she  affected  the  manners  of  a 
spendthrift;  she  would  call  cabs  to  carry  her  a  hundred 
yards,  give  a  beggar  a  shilling,  or  throw  a  pair  of  gloves 
out  of  the  window  because  they  had  been  worn  once. 

Cairns  smiled  tolerantly.  She  might  as  well  have  her 
fling,  he  thought,  and  a  lack  of  discipline  was  as  charming 
in  a  mistress  as  it  was  deplorable  in  a  wife.  He  was,  there- 
fore, not  surprised  when,  one  morning,  he  found  Victoria 
apparently  nervous  and  worried.  She  owned  that  she  was 
short  of  cash.  In  fact,  the  manager  of  her  bank  had 
written  to  point  out  that  her  account  was  overdrawn. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Cairns  with  mock  gravity  ,"you've 
been  going  it,  old  girl!  What's  all  this?  'Self,'  'Self,' 
why  all  these  cheques  are  to  'Self.'  You'll  go  broke." 

"I  suppose  I  shall,"  said  Victoria  wearily.  "I  don't 
know  how  I  do  it,  Tom.  I'm  no  good  at  accounts.  And 
I  hate  asking  you  for  more  money  .  .  .  but  what  am  I 
to  do?" 

She  crossed  her  hands  over  her  knees  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  pretty  expression  of  appeal.  Cairns  laughed. 


206  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said,  curling  a  lock  of  her  hair  round 
a  fat  forefinger.  "I'll  see  you  through." 

Victoria  received  that  afternoon  a  cheque  for  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds,  which  she  paid  into  'her  account. 
She  did  not,  however,  inform  Cairns  that  the  proceeds  of 
the  "Self"  cheques  had  been  paid  into  a  separate  account, 
which  she  had  opened  with  another  bank.  By  this  means, 
she  was  always  able  to  exhibit  a  gloomy  pass  book  when- 
ever it  was  required. 

Having  discovered  that  Cairns  was  squeezable  Victoria 
felt  more  hopeful  as  to  the  future.  She  was  his  only  lux- 
ury and  made  the  most  of  his  liking  for  jewellery  and  furs. 
She  even  hit  upon  the  more  ingenious  experiment  of  in- 
teresting Barbezan  Soeurs  in  her  little  speculations.  The 
device  was  not  novel:  for  a  consideration  of  ten  per  cent 
these  bustling  dressmakers  were  ready  to  provide  fictitious 
bills  and  even  solicitor's  letters  couched  in  frigidly  menac- 
ing terms.  Cairns  laughed  and  paid  solidly.  He  had,  ap- 
parently, far  more  money  than  he  needed.  Victoria  was 
almost  an  economy;  without  her  he  would  have  lost  a 
fortune  at  bridge,  kept  a  yacht,  perhaps,  and  certainly  a 
motor.  As  it  was  he  was  quite  content  with  his  poky 
chambers  in  St.  James',  a  couple  of  clubs  which  he  never 
thought  of  entering,  'the  house  in  Elm  Tree  Place  and  a 
stock  of  good  cigars. 

Cairns  was  happy,  and  Victoria  labouring  lightly  for 
large  profits,  was  contented,  too.  Theirs  were  lazy  lives, 
for  Cairns  was  a  man  who  could  loaf.  He  loafed  so  suc- 
cessfully that  he  did  not  even  think  of  interfering  with 
Victoria's  reading.  She  now  read  steadily  and  vora- 
ciously; she  eschewed  novels,  fearing  the  influence  of  sen- 
timent. "It  will  be  time  for  sentiment  by  and  by,"  she 
sometimes  told  herself.  Meanwhile  she  armoured  her 
heart  and  sharpened  her  wits.  The  earlier  political  opin- 
ions which  had  formed  in  her  mind  under  the  pressure  of 
toil  remained  unchanged  but  did  not  develop.  She  recog- 
nised herself  as  a  parasite  and  almost  gloried  in  it.  She 
evolved  as  a  system  of  philosophy  that  one's  conduct  in 
life  is  a  matter  of  alternatives.  Nothing  was  good  and 
nothing  was  evil;  things  were  better  than  others  or  worse 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  207 

and  there  was  an  end  of  her  morality.  Victoria  had  no 
patience  with  theories.  One  day  much  to  Cairns's  sur- 
prise, she  violently  flung  Ingersoll's  essays  into  the  fender. 

"Steady  on,"  said  Cairns,  "steady  on,  old  girl." 

"Such  rot,"  she  snarled. 

"Hear,  hear,"  said  Cairns,  picking  up  the  book  and 
looking  at  its  title.  "Serve  you  right  for  reading  that  sort 
of  stuff.  I  can't  make  you  out,  Vic." 

Victoria  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  smile,  but  refused 
to  assign  a  cause  for  her  anger.  In  fact  she  had  suddenly 
been  irritated  by  Ingersoll's  definition  of  morality.  "Per- 
ceived obligation,"  she  thought.  "And  I  don't  perceive 
any  obligation!"  She  consoled  herself  suddenly  with  the 
thought  that  her  amorality  was  a  characteristic  of  the 
superman. 

The  superman  preoccupied  her  now  and  then.  He  was 
a  good  subject  for  speculation  because  imponderable  and 
inexistent.  The  nearest  approach  she  could  think  of  was 
a  cross  between  an  efficient  colonial  governor  and  a  latter- 
day  prophet.  She  believed  quite  sincerely  that  the  day 
must  come  when  children  of  the  light  must  be  born,  ca- 
pable of  ruling  and  of  keeping  the  law.  She  saw  very 
well,  too,  that  their  production  did  not  lie  with  an  effete 
aristocracy  any  more  than  with  a  dirty  and  drunken  de- 
mocracy ;  probably  they  would  be  neo-plutocrats,  men  full 
of  ambition,  lusting  for  power  and  yet  imbued  with  a 
spirit  of  icy  justice.  Her  earliest  tendency  had  been  to- 
wards an  idealistic  socialism.  Burning  with  her  own 
wrongs  and  touched  by  the  angelic  wing  of  sympathy,  she 
had  seen  in  the  communisation  of  wealth  the  only  means 
of  curbing  the  evils  it  had  hitherto  wrought.  Further 
observation  showed  her,  however,  that  an  idealism  of  this 
kind  would  not  lead  the  world  speedily  into  a  peaceful 
haven.  She  saw  too  well  that  covetousness  was  still  lurk- 
ing snaillike  in  the  bosom  of  man,  ready  to  rear  its  ugly 
head  and  strike  at  any  hand.  Thus  she  was  not  surprised 
to  see  the  chaos  which  reigned  among  socialists,  their  in- 
triguing, their  jealousies,  their  unending  dissensions,  their 
apostasies.  This  did  not  throw  her  back  into  the  stereo- 
typed philosophy  of  individualism;  for  she  could  not  help 


2o8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

seeing  that  the  system  of  modern  life  was  absurd,  stupidly 
wasteful  above  all  of  time,  labour  and  wealth.  To  apply 
Nietzscheism  to  socialism  was,  however,  beyond  her;  to 
reconcile  the  two  doctrines  which  apparently  conflict  and 
really  only  overlap  was  a  task  too  difficult  for  a  brain 
which  had  lain  fallow  for  twenty-five  years.  But  she 
dimly  felt  that  Nietzscheism  did  not  mean  a  glorified  im- 
perialism, but  a  worship  of  intellectual  efficiency  and  the 
stringent  morality  of  noblesse  oblige. 

Where  Victoria  began  to  part  issue  with  her  own 
thoughts  was  when  she  considered  the  position  of  women. 
Their  outlook  was  one  of  unrelieved  gloom ;  and  it  one  day 
came  upon  her  as  a  revelation  that  Nietzsche  and  Schopen- 
hauer, following  in  a  degree  on  Rousseau,  had  forgotten 
women  in  the  scheme  of  life.  There  might  be  supermen, 
but  there  would  be  no  superwomen:  if  the  supermen  were 
true  to  their  type  they  would  have  to  crush  and  to  dom- 
inate the  women.  As  the  latter  fared  so  hard  at  the  hands 
of  the  pigmies  of  to-day,  what  would  they  do  if  they  could 
not  develop  in  time  to  resist  the  sons  of  Anak?  Victoria 
saw  that  the  world  was  entering  upon  a  sex  war.  Hitherto 
a  shameful  state  of  peace  had  left  women  in  the  hands  of 
men,  turning  over  the  other  cheek  to  the  smiter.  The  sex 
war,  however,  held  forth  no  hopes  to  her;  in  the  dim  fu- 
ture, sex  equality  might  perhaps  prevail;  but  she  saw 
nothing  to  indicate  that  women  had  sown  the  seeds  of 
their  victory.  She  had  no  wish  to  enrol  herself  in  the 
ranks  of  those  who  were  waging  an  almost  hopeless  battle, 
armed  with  untrained  intellects  and  unathletic  bodies. 
She  could  not  get  away  from  the  fact  that  the  best  women 
athletes  cannot  compete  with  ordinary  men,  that  even 
women  with  high  intellectual  qualifications  had  not  ousted 
from  commanding  positions  men  of  inferior  ability. 

All  this,  she  thought,  was  unjust;  but  why  hope  for  a 
change?  There  was  nothing  to  show  that  men  grew  much 
better  as  a  sex;  then  why -pin  faith  to  the  coming  of  bet- 
ter times?  Women  were  parasites,  working  only  under 
constraint,  badly  and  at  uncongenial  tasks;  their  right  to 
live  was  based  on  their  capacity  to  please.  This  brought 
her  to  her  own  situation.  The  future  lay  before  her  in 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  209 

the  shape  of  two  roads.  One  was  the  road  which  led  to 
the  struggle  for  life;  ending,  she  felt  it  too  well,  in  a  crawl 
to  death  on  crippled  limbs.  The  other  was  the  road  along 
which  grew  roses,  roses  which  she  could  pluck  and  sell  to 
men;  at  the  end  of  that  was  the  heaven  of  independence. 
It  had  golden  gates;  it  was  guarded  by  an  angel  in  white 
garments  with  a  palm  leaf  in  his  hands  and  beyond  lay 
the  pleasant  places  where  she  had  a  right  of  way.  And 
as  she  looked  again  the  heaven  with  the  golden  gates 
turned  into  a  bank  with  a  commissionaire  at  the  door. 

Her  choice  being  made,  she  did  not  regret  it.  For  the 
time  being  her  life  was  pleasant  enough,  and  if  it  could 
be  made  a  little  more  profitable  it  would  soon  be  well 
worth  living,  and  her  freedom  would  be  earned.  Mean- 
while she  took  pleasure  in  small  things.  The  little  house 
was  almost  a  show  place,  so  delicate  and  refined  were  its 
inner  and  outer  details.  Victoria  saw  to  it  that  frequently 
changed  flowers  decorated  the  beds  in  the  front  garden; 
Japanese  trees,  dwarfed  and  gnarled,  stood  right  and  left 
of  the  steps,  scowling  like  tiny  Titans;  all  the  blinds  in 
the  house  were  a  mass  of  insertion.  These  blinds  were  a 
feature  for  her;  they  implied  secrecy.  Behind  the  half 
blinds  were  thick  curtains  of  decorated  muslin;  behind 
these  again,  heavy  curtains  which  could  be  drawn  at  wilL 
They  were  the  impenetrable  veil  which  closed  off  from 
the  world  and  its  brutalities  this  oasis  of  forbidden  joys. 

In  the  house  also  she  was  ever  elaborating,  sybaritising 
her  life.  She  had  a  branch  telephone  fixed  at  the  head  of 
her  bed;  the  first  time  that  Cairns  used  it  to  tell  his  man 
to  bring  up  his  morning  coat  she  had  the  peculiar  sensation 
that  her  bed  was  in  touch  with  the  world.  She  could  call 
up  anybody,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the  Governor 
of  the  Bank  of  England  or  the  headquarters  of  the  Sal- 
vation Army.  Her  bed  was  the  centre  of  the  world.  She 
fitted  the  doors  of  her  bedroom  and  her  boudoir  with 
curious  little  locks,  which  acted  on  the  pressure  of  a  finger, 
for  her  mind  was  turned  on  delicacies  and  the  sharp  click 
of  a  bolt,  the  grating  of  a  key  savoured  of  the  definite, 
therefore  of  the  coarse.  A  twist  of  the  knob  between  two 
fingers  and  the  world  was  silently  shut  out. 


210  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Now,  too,  that  she  was  beautiful  once  more  she  revelled 
in  mirrors.  The  existing  ones  in  her  bedroom  and  in  the 
boudoir  were  not  enough;  they  were  public,  unintimate. 
She  had  a  high  mirror  fixed  in  the  bathroom,  so  that  she 
could  see  herself  in  her  freshness,  covered  with  pearly 
beads  like  a  naiad.  She  rejoiced  in  her  beauty,  in  her 
renewed  strength ;  she  often  stood  for  many  minutes  in  the 
dim,  steamy  light  of  the  room,  analysing  her  body,  its 
grace  and  youth,  with  a  growing  consciousness  of  latent 
power.  Then,  suddenly,  the  faint  violet  streaks  of  the 
varicose  veins  would  intrude  upon  the  rite  and  she  would 
wrap  herself  up  jealously  in  her  bathrobe  so  that  not  even 
the  mirror  should  be  a  confidant  of  the  past. 

CHAPTER  V 

WEEK  after  week  passed  on,  and  now  monotony  drew 
her  stifling  cloak  over  Victoria.  Cairns  was  still  in  a  state 
of  beatitude,  which  made  him  an  unexciting  companion; 
satisfied  in  his  egoism,  it  never  came  into  his  mind  that 
Victoria  could  tire  of  her  life.  He  spent  many  afternoons 
in  the  back  garden  under  a  rose-covered  pergola.  By  his 
side  was  a  little  table  with  a  syphon,  a  decanter  of  whisky, 
and  a  box  of  cigars;  he  read  desultorily,  sometimes  the 
latest  motor  novel,  at  other  times  the  improving  memoirs 
of  eighteenth  century  noblewomen.  Now  and  then  he 
would  look  approvingly  at  Victoria  in  plain  white  drill, 
delightfully  mischievous  under  a  sun-bonnet,  and  relapse 
into  his  book.  Once  he  quoted  "A  flask  of  wine,  a  book 
of  verse  .  .  ."  and  Victoria  went  into  sudden  fits  of 
laughter  when  she  remembered  Neville  Brown.  The  sin- 
gle hackneyed  line  seemed  to  link  malekind  together. 

Cairns  was  already  talking  of  going  away.  June  was 
oppressively  hot  and  he  was  hankering  after  some  quiet 
place  where  he  might  do  some  sea-fishing  and  get  some 
golf.  He  was  becoming  dangerously  fat;  and  Victoria, 
foreseeing  a  long  and  very  cheap  holiday,  favoured  the 
idea  in  every  way.  They  could  go  up  to  Scotland  later, 
too;  but  Cairns  rather  hesitated  about  this,  for  he  neither 
cared  to  show  off  Victoria  before  the  people  he  knew  on 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  211 

the  moors,  nor  to  leave  her  for  a  fortnight.  He  was  pay- 
ing the  penalty  of  Capua.  His  plans  were  set  back,  how- 
ever, by  serious  trouble  which  had  taken  place  on  his  Irish 
estate,  his,  though  still  in  the  hands  of  Marmaduke 
Cairns's  executors.  There  had  been  nightriding,  cattle 
driving,  some  boycotting.  The  situation  grew  so  tense 
that  the  executors  advised  Cairns  to  sell  the  estate  to  the 
tenants,  but  the  latter  declined  the  terms;  matters  came 
to  a  deadlock  and  it  was  quite  on  the  cards  that  an  appli- 
cation might  be  made  under  the  Irish  Land  Act.  It  was 
clear  that  in  this  case  the  terms  would  be  bad,  and  Cairns 
was  called  to  Limerick  by  telegram  as  a  last  chance.  He 
left  Victoria,  grumbling  and  cursing  Ireland  and  all  things 
Irish. 

Left  to  herself,  Victoria  felt  rather  at  a  loose  end.  The 
cheerful  if  uninteresting  personality  of  Major  Cairns  had 
a  way  of  filling  the  house.  He  had  an  expansive  mind;  it 
was  almost  chubby.  For  two  days  she  rather  enjoyed  her 
freedom.  The  summer  was  gorgeous;  St.  John's  Wood 
was  bursting  everywhere  into  flower ;  the  trees  were  grow- 
ing opaque  in  the  parks.  At  every  street  corner  little 
whirlwinds  of  dry  grit  swayed  in  the  hot  air.  One  after- 
noon Victoria  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  hired  private 
carriage,  and  flaunted  it  with  the  best  in  the  long  line  on 
the  south  side  of  the  park.  Wedged  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  the  mass  she  felt  a  glow  come  over  her.  The 
horses  all  round  her  shone  like  polished  wood,  the  car- 
riage panels  were  lustrous,  the  harness  was  glittering,  the 
brass  burnished;  all  the  world  seemed  to  radiate  warmth 
and  light.  Gaily  enough,  because  not  jaded  by  repetition, 
she  caused  the  carriage  to  do  the  Ring,  twice.  She  felt 
for  a  moment  that  she  was  free,  that  she  could  vie  with 
those  women  whose  lazy  detachment  she  stirred  for  a 
moment  into  curiosity  by  her  deep  eyes,  dark  piled  hair 
and  the  audacity  of  her  diaphanous  crepe  de  chine. 

Cairns  was  still  in  Ireland,  struggling  conscientiously 
to  pile  up  an  unearned  increment;  and  Victoria,  thor- 
oughly aimless,  suddenly  bethought  herself  of  Farwell. 
She  had  been  remiss  in  what  was  almost  a  duty.  Surely 
she  ought  to  report  progress  to  the  man  who  had  helped 


212  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  open  her  eyes  to  the  realities  of  life.  She  had  mis- 
applied his  teaching  perhaps,  or  rather  remoulded  it,  but 
still  it  was  his  teaching.  Or  rather  it  was  what  a  woman 
should  know,  as  opposed  to  what  Thomas  Farwell 
preached;  if  men  were  to  practise  that,  then  she  should 
revise  her  philosophy. 

At  ten  minutes  to  one  she  entered  the  Moorgate  Street 
P.R.R.  with  a  little  thrill.  Everything  breathed  familiar- 
ity; it  was  like  coming  home,  but  better,  for  it  is  sweeter 
to  revisit  the  place  where  one  has  suffered,  when  one  has 
emerged,  than  to  brood  with  gentle  sorrow  on  the  spot, 
where  there  once  was  joy.  She  knew  every  landmark,  the 
tobacconist,  the  picture  shop,  still  full  of  "Mother's  Helps" 
and  of  "artistic"  studies  in  the  nude;  there  was  the  red- 
coated  bootblack,  too,  as  dirty  and  as  keenly  solicitous  as 
ever.  The  P.R.R.  itself  did  not  chill  her.  In  the  crude 
June  sunlight  its  nickel  shone  gaily  enough.  Everything 
was  as  before;  the  cakes  had  been  moulded  in  the  old 
moulds,  and  here  was  the  old  bill  of  fare,  unchanged  no 
doubt;  even  the  marble-topped  tables  and  the  half-cleaned 
cruets  looked  kindly  upon  her;  but  the  tesselated  red  and 
blue  floor  aroused  the  hateful  memory  of  another  Victoria 
on  her  hands  and  knees,  an  old  sack  round  her  waist,  pain- 
fully swaying  from  right  to  left,  swabbing  the  tiles.  Little 
rivulets  of  water  and  dirt  flowed  slowly  across  the  spectre's 
hand. 

As  she  went  down  the  steps  into  the  smoking-room  she 
crossed  with  the  manageress,  still  buxom  and  erect;  but 
she  passed  unnoticed,  for  this  was  the  busy  hour  when  the 
chief  tried  to  be  simultaneously  on  three  floors.  The  room 
was  not  so  full  as  it  had  once  been.  She  sat  down  at  a 
little  table  and  watched  the  familiar  scene  for  some  min- 
utes. She  told  the  girl  she  would  wait  a  minute,  for  she 
did  not  want  to  miss  Fanvell.  The  world  had  gone  round, 
but  apparently  the  P.R.R.  was  the  axis.  There  in  the  cor- 
ner were  the  chess  players;  to-day  they  only  ran  four 
boards,  but  at  one  of  them  a  fierce  discussion  was  going 
on  as  to  a  variation  of  the  queen's  pawn  opening.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  room  were  the  young  domino  players, 
laughing  and  smoking  cigarettes.  The  fat  and  yellow  Le- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  213 

vantine  was  missing.  Victoria  regretted  him,  for  the  apoc- 
alyptic figure  was  an  essential  part  of  the  ugly  past.  But 
there  was  "old  dry  toast"  all  alone  at  his  little  table.  He 
had  not  changed;  his  white  hair  still  framed  thickly  his 
beautiful  old  brown  face.  There  he  sat,  still  silent  and 
desolate,  waiting  for  the  end.  Victoria  felt  a  pang  of 
sorrow.  She  was  not  quite  hardened  yet  and  she  realised 
it  angrily.  There  must  be  no  sympathy  and  no  quarter  in 
her  game  of  life.  It  was  too  late  or  too  soon  for  that. 
Victoria  let  her  eyes  stray  round  'the  room.  There  were 
the  young  men  and  boys  or  some  of  the  same  breed,  in 
their  dark  suits,  brilliant  ties,  talking  noisily,  chaffing  one 
another,  gulping  down  their  small  teas  and  toasted  scones. 
A  conversation  between  two  older  men  was  wafted  in  to 
her  ears. 

"Awful.    Have  you  tried  annelicide?" 

At  that  moment  a  short,  broad  figure  walked  smartly 
down  the  steps.  It  was  Thomas  Farwell,  a  thin  red  book 
under  his  arm.  He  went  straight  through  to  the  old  table, 
propped  his  book  against  the  cruet  and  began  to  read. 
Victoria  surveyed  him  critically.  He  was  thinner  than 
ever;  his  hair  was  more  plentifully  sprinkled  with  grey 
but  had  receded  no  further.  He  was  quite  near  her,  so 
she  could  see  his  unbrushed  collar  and  his  frayed  cuffs. 
After  a  moment  the  girl  came  and  stood  beside  him;  it 
was  Nelly,  big  and  raw-boned  as  ever,  handsome  still  like 
the  fine  beast  of  burden  she  was.  She  wore  no  apron  now, 
in  proud  token  of  her  new  position  as  head  waitress.  Now 
the  voices  by  her  side  were  talking  holidays. 

"No,  Ramsgit's  good  enough  for  me.  Broadstairs  and 
all  these  little  places,  they're  so  tony " 

Maud  passed  quickly  before  Victoria.  The  poor  little 
girl  was  as  white  as  ever;  her  flaccid  cheeks  danced  up 
and  down  as  she  ran.  The  other  voice  was  relating  at 
length  how  its  owner  had  taken  his  good  lady  to  Deal. 
Nelly  had  left  Farwell,  walking  more  slowly  than  the 
other  girls,  as  befitted  her  station.  Victoria  felt  herself 
pluck  up  a  little  courage,  crossed  the  room,  followed  by 
many  admiring  glances,  and  quickly  sat  down  at  Farwell 's 


214  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

table.  He  looked  up  quickly.  The  book  dropped  sud- 
denly from  the  cruet. 

"Victoria,"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Well  .  .  ."  His  eyes  ran  over  her  close-fitting  tussore 
dress,  her  white  kid  gloves. 

"Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  to  me?"  she  asked. 
"Won't  you  shake  hands?" 

Farwell  put  out  his  hand  and  held  hers  for  a  second. 
He  was  smiling  now,  with  just  a  touch  of  wistfulness  in 
his  eyes. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  at  length. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Victoria.  "I  hope  you  don't  mind  my 
coming  here,  but  I  only  thought  of  it  this  morning." 

"Mind,"  snapped  Farwell.  "People  who  understand 
everything  never  mind  anything." 

Victoria  smiled  again.  The  bumptious  aphorism  was 
a  sign  that  Farwell  was  still  himself.  For  a  minute  or  so 
they  looked  at  one  another.  Victoria  wondered  at  this 
man;  so  powerful  intellectually  and  physically;  and  yet 
content  to  live  in  his  ideals  on  a  pittance,  to  do  dull  work, 
to  be  a  subordinate.  Truly  a  caged  lion.  Farwell,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  looking  in  vain  for  some  physical  ravishes 
to  justify  Victoria's  profession,  for  some  gross  develop- 
ment at  least.  He  looked  in  vain.  Instead  of  the  pale 
dark  girl  with  large  grey  eyes  whom  he  had  known,  he 
now  saw  a  healthy  and  beautiful  woman  with  a  clear 
white  skin,  thick  hair,  red  lips. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "can  I  invite  you  to  lunch 
with  me?" 

"You  may,"  she  said.  "I'll  have  a  small  coffee  and  .  .  . 
a  sunny  side  up." 

Farwell  laughed  and  signed  to  Nelly.  After  a  minute 
he  attracted  her  attention  and  gave  the  order  without 
Nelly  taking  any  interest  in  Farwell's  guest.  It  might  be 
rather  extraordinary,  but  her  supervisory  duties  were  all- 
absorbent.  When  she  returned,  however,  she  stole  a  curi- 
ous look  at  Victoria  while  placing  before  her  the  poached 
egg  on  toast.  She  looked  at  her  again,  and  her  eyes  di- 
lated. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  215 

"Law,"  she  said,  "Vic!" 

"Yes,  Nelly,  how  are  you?"  Victoria  put  out  her  gloved 
hand.  Nelly  took  it  wonderingly. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  answered  slowly.  "Just  been  made 
head  waitress,"  she  added  with  some  unction.  Her  eyes 
were  roving  over  Victoria's  clothes,  valuing  them  like  an 
expert. 

"Congratulations,"  said  Victoria.  "Glad  you're  getting 
on." 

"I  see  you're  getting  on,"  said  Nelly,  with  a  touch  of 
sarcasm. 

"So,  so,  things  aren't  too  bad."  Victoria  looked  up. 
The  women's  eyes  crossed  like  rapiers;  Nelly's  were  full 
of  suspicion.  The  conversation  stopped  then,  for  Nelly 
was  already  in  request  in  half  a  dozen  quarters. 

"She  knows,"  said  Victoria  smoothly. 

"Of  course,"  said  Farwefl.  "Trust  a  woman  to  know 
the  worst  about  another  and  to  show  it  up.  Every  little 
helps  in  a  contest  such  as  life." 

Farwell  then  questioned  her  as  to  her  situation,  but 
she  refused  him  all  details. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  here.  There's  Nelly  watching  us, 
and  Maud  has  just  been  told.  Betty's  been  shifted,  I 
know,  and  I  suppose  Mary  and  Jennie  are  gone,  but 
there's  the  manageress  and  some  of  the  girls  upstairs.  I've 
nearly  done.  Let  me  return  the  invitation.  Dine  with 
me  to-night  .  .  ."  She  was  going  to  say  "at  home,"  but 
changed  her  mind  to  the  prudent  course  .  .  .  "at,  well, 
anywhere  you  like.  Whereabouts  do  you  live,  Mr.  Far- 
well?" 

"I  live  in  the  Waterloo  Road,"  said  Farwell,  "an  artery 
named  after  the  playing  fields  of  Eton." 

"I  don't  know  it  well,"  said  Victoria,  "but  I  seem  to 
remember  an  Italian  place  near  Waterloo  Station.  Sup- 
pose you  meet  me  at  the  south  end  of  Waterloo  Bridge 
at  seven?" 

"It  will  do  admirably,"  said  the  man.  "I  suppose  you 
want  to  go  now?  Well,  you've  put  out  my  habits,  but  I'll 
come,  too." 

They  went  out;  the  last  Victoria'saw  of  the  P.R.R.  was 


216  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  face  of  the  cook  through  the  hole  in  the  partition,  red, 
sweating,  wrinkled  by  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  day. 
They  parted  in  the  churchyard.  Victoria  watched  him 
walk  away  with  his  firm  swing,  his  head  erect. 
"A  man,"  she  thought,  "too  clever  to  succeed." 
Being  now  again  at  a  loose  end  and  still  feeling  fairly 
hungry,  she  drove  down  to  Frascati's  to  lunch.  She  was 
a  healthy  young  animal,  and  scanty  fare  was  now  a  nov- 
elty. At  three  o'clock  she  decided  to  look  up  Betty  at  her 
depot  in  Holborn;  and  by  great  good  luck  found  that 
Betty  was  free  at  half-past  five,  as  the  Holborn  depot,  for 
unknown  reasons,  kept  shorter  hours  than  Moorgate 
Street.  She  whiled  away  the  intervening  time  easily 
enough  by  shop-gazing  and  writing  a  long  letter  to  Caims 
on  the  hospitable  paper  of  the  Grand  Hotel.  At  half-past 
five  she  picked  up  Betty  at  the  door  of  the  P.R.R. 

"Thank  you  again  so  very,  very  much  for  the  sweater 
and  the  dressing  gown,"  said  Betty  as  she  slipped  her 
arm  through  that  of  her  friend. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Betty,  I  like  giving  you  things."  Vic- 
toria smiled  and  pressed  the  girl's  arm.  "You're  not  look- 
ing well,  Betty." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Betty  wearily. 
Victoria  looked  at  her  again.  Under  the  pretty,  waved, 
sandy  hair  Betty's  forehead  looked  waxen;  her  cheeks 
were  too  red.  Her  arm  felt  thinner  than  ever.  What  was 
one  to  do?  Betty  was  a  weakling  and  must  go  to  the  wall. 
But  there  was  a  sweetness  in  her  which  no  one  could  re- 
sist. 

"Look  here,  Betty,"  said  Victoria,  "I've  got  very  little 
time;  I've  got  to  meet  Mr.  Farwell  at  Waterloo  Bridge  at 
seven.  It's  beautifully  fine,  let's  drive  down  to  Embank- 
ment Gardens  and  talk." 

Betty's  face  clouded  for  a  moment  at  the  mention  of 
Farwell's  name.  She  hated  him  with  the  ferocity  of  the 
weak ;  he  had  ruined  her  friend.  But  it  was  good  to  have 
her  back.  The  cab  drove  down  Chancery  Lane  at  a  spank- 
ing rate,  then  across  the  Strand  and  through  a  lane.  The 
unaccustomed  pleasure  and  the  rush  of  air  brought  all  her 
face  into  pink  unison  with  her  cheeks. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  217 

The  two  women  sat  side  by  side  for  a  moment.  This 
was  the  second  time  they  had  met  since  Victoria  had 
entered  her  new  life.  There  had  been  a  few  letters,  the 
last  to  thank  Victoria  for  her  Christmas  present,  but  Betty 
did  not  say  much  in  them.  Her  tradition  of  virtue  had 
erected  a  barrier  between  them. 

"Well,  Betty,"  said  Victoria  suddenly,  "do  you  still 
think  me  very  bad?" 

"Oh,  Vic,  how  can  you?    I  never,  never  said  that." 

"No,  you  thought  it,"  answered  Victoria  a  little  cruelly. 
"But  never  mind,  perhaps  you're  right." 

"I  never  said  so,  never  thought  so,"  persisted  Betty. 
"You  can't  go  wrong,  Vic,  you're  .  .  .  you're  different." 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Victoria.  "Perhaps  there  are 
different  laws  for  different  people.  At  any  rate  I've  made 
my  choice  and  must  abide  by  it." 

"And  are  you  happy,  Vic?"  Anxiety  was  in  the  girl's 
face. 

"Happy?    Oh,  happy  enough.    He's  a  good  sort." 

"I'm  so  glad.  And  .  .  .  Vic  ...  do  you  think  he'll 
marry  you?" 

"Marry  me?"  said  Victoria,  laughing.  "You  little 
goose,  of  course  not.  Why  should  he  marry  me  now  he's 
got  me?" 

This  was  a  new  idea  for  Betty. 

"But  doesn't  he  love  you  very,  very  much?"  she  asked, 
her  blue  eyes  growing  rounder  and  rounder. 

"I  suppose  he  does  in  a  way,"  said  Victoria.  "But  it 
doesn't  matter.  He's  very  kind  to  me,  but  he  won't 
marry  me;  and,  honestly,  I  wouldn't  marry  him." 

Betty  looked  at  her  amazed  and  a  little  shocked. 

"But,  dear,"  she  faltered,  "think  of  what  it  would 
mean;  you  ...  he  and  you,  you  see  .  .  .  you're  living 
like  that  ...  if  he  married  you  ..." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Victoria  with  a  slight  sneer,  "you 
mean  that  I  should  be  an  honest  woman  and  all  that? 
My  dear  child,  you  don't  understand.  Whether  he  mar- 
ries me  or  not  it's  all  the  same.  So  long  as  a  woman  is 
economically  dependent  on  a  man  she's  a  slave,  a  play- 
thing. Legally  or  illegally  joined  it's  exactly  the  same 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 

thing;  the  legal  bond  has  its  advantages  and  its  disad- 
vantages and  there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

Betty  looked  away  over  the  Thames;  she  did  not  under- 
stand. The  tradition  was  too  strong.  Time  went  quickly. 
Betty  had  no  tale  to  unfold;  the  months  had  passed  leav- 
ing her  doing  the  same  work  for  the  same  wage,  living  in 
the  same  room.  Before  her  was  the  horizon  on  which  were 
outlined  two  ships;  "ten  hours  a  day"  and  "eight  bob  a 
week."  And  the  skyline? 

As  they  parted,  Victoria  made  Betty  promise  to  come 
and  see  her.  Then  they  kissed  twice,  gently  and  silently, 
and  Victoria  watched  her  friend's  slim  figure  fade  out  of 
sight  as  she  walked  away.  She  had  the  same  impression 
as  when  she  parted  with  Lottie,  who  had  gone  so  bravely 
into  the  dark.  A  wave  of  melancholy  was  upon  her.  Poor 
girls,  they  were  without  hope;  she,  at  least,  was  viewing 
life  with  her  eyes  open.  She  would  wrench  something  out 
of  it  yet.  She  shook  herself;  it  was  a  quarter  to  seven. 

An  hour  later  she  was  sitting  opposite  Farwell.  They 
were  getting  to  the  end  of  dinner.  Conversation  had 
flagged  while  they  disposed  of  the  earlier  courses.  Now 
they  were  at  the  ice  and  coffee  stage.  The  waiters  grew 
less  attentive;  indeed,  there  was  nobody  to  observe  them 
save  the  olive-skinned  boy  with  the  mournful  eyes  who 
looked  at  the  harbour  of  Palermo  through  the  Waterloo 
Road  door.  Farwell  lit  the  cigar  which  Victoria  forced 
upon  him,  and  leant  back,  puffing  contentedly. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "how  do  you  like  the  life?" 

"It  is  better  than  the  old  one,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  so  you've  come  to  that.  You  have  given  up  the 
absolutes." 

"Yes,  I've  given  them  up.    A  woman  like  me  has  to." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you've  got  to,"  pandered  Farwell. 
"But  apart  from  that,  is  it  a  success?  Are  you  attaining 
your  end?  That's  the  only  thing  that  matters,  you 
know." 

"I  am,  in  a  sense;  I'm  saving  money.  You  see,  he's 
generous." 

"Excellent,  excellent,"  sneered  Farwell.  "I  like  to  see 
you  making  out  of  what  the  bourgeois  call  vice  that  which 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  219 

will  enable  you  to  command  the  bourgeois  respect.  By- 
and-by  I  suppose  you'll  have  made  a  fortune?" 

"Well,  no;  a  competency,  perhaps,  with  luck." 

"With  luck,  as  you  say.  Do  you  know,  Victoria,  this 
luck  business  is  grand!  My  firm  goes  in  for  mines:  they 
went  prospecting  in  America  twenty  years  ago  and  they 
happened  to  strike  copper.  That  was  good.  Other  men 
struck  granite  only.  That  was  bad.  But  my  boss  is  a 
City  Sheriff  now.  Frightfully  rich.  There  used  to  be 
four  of  them,  but  one  died  of  copper  poisoning,  and  an- 
other was  found  shot  in  a  gulch.  Nobody  knows  how  it 
happened,  but  the  other  two  got  the  mines." 

Victoria  smiled.    She  liked  this  piratical  tit-bit. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "luck's  the  thing.  And  merit  .  .  . 
well,  I  suppose  the  surviving  partners  had  merit." 

"Anyhow,  I  wish  you  luck,"  said  Farwell.  "But  tell 
me  more.  Do  you  find  you've  paid  too  high  a  price  for 
what  you've  got?" 

"Too  high  a  price?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  have  any  of  that  remorse  we  read  about; 
would  you  like  to  be  what  you  were?  Unattached,  you 
know  .  .  .  eligible  for  Young  Women's  Christian  Associa- 
tions?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Victoria  laughed.  "I  can't  pay  too  high  a 
price  for  what  I  think  I'll  get.  I  don't  mean  these  jewels 
or  these  clothes,  that's  only  my  professional  uniform. 
When  I've  served  my  time  I  shall  get  that  for  which  no 
woman  can  pay  too  much:  I  shall  be  economically  inde- 
pendent, free." 

"Free."  Farwell  looked  towards  the  ceiling  through  a 
cloudlet  of  smoke.  "Yes,  you're  right.  With  the  world 
as  it  is  it's  the  only  way.  To  be  independent  you  must 
acquire  the  right  to  be  dependent  on  the  world's  labour, 
to  be  a  drone  .  .  .  and  the  biggest  drone  is  queen  of  the 
hive.  Yet  I  wish  it  had  been  otherwise  with  you."  He 
looked  at  her  regretfully. 

Victoria  toyed  with  a  dessert  knife. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  you  had  possibilities  .  .  .  but  after  all,  we  all 
have.  And  most  of  them  turn  out  to  be  impossibilities. 


220  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

At  any  rate,  you're  not  disgusted  with  your  life,  with  any 
detail?'' 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  say  I'll  go  on  any  longer 
than  I  need,  but  it's  bearable.  But  even  if  it  were  re- 
pulsive in  every  way  I'd  go  on  if  I  saw  freedom  ahead. 
If  I  fight  at  all  I  fight  to  a  finish." 

"You're  strong,"  said  Farwell,  looking  at  her.  "I  wish 
I  had  your  strength.  You've  got  that  force  which  makes 
explorers,  founders  of  new  faiths,  prophets,  company  pro- 
moters." He  sighed. 

"Let's  go,"  he  added,  "we  can  talk  in  the  warm  night." 

For  an  hour  they  talked,  agreeing  always  in  the  end. 
Farwell  was  cruelly  conscious  of  two  wasted  lives:  his, 
because  his  principles  and  has  capacity  for  thought  had 
no  counterweight  in  a  capacity  for  action;  Victoria's,  be- 
cause of  her  splendid  gifts  ignobly  wasted  and  misused  by 
a  world  which  had  asked  her  for  the  least  of  them. 

Victoria  felt  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  this  man's  society. 
He  was  elderly,  ugly,  ill-clad;  sometimes  he  was  boorish, 
but  a  halo  of  thought  surrounded  him,  and  the  least  of  his 
words  seemed  precious.  All  this  devirilised  him,  deprived 
him  of  physical  attractiveness.  She  could  not  imagine 
herself  receiving  and  returning  his  caresses.  They  parted 
on  Waterloo  Bridge. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Farwell,  "you're  on  the  right  track. 
The  time  hasn't  come  for  us  to  keep  the  law,  for  we  don't 
know  what  the  law  is.  All  we  have  is  the  edict  of  the 
powerful,  the  prejudice  of  the  fool;  the  last  especially,  for 
these  goaled  souls  have  their  traditions,  and  their  convic- 
tions are  prisons  all." 

Victoria  pressed  his  hand  and  turned  away.  She  did 
not  look  back.  If  she  had  she  would  have  seen  Farwell 
looking  into  the  Thames,  his  face  lit  up  by  a  gas  lamp, 
curiously  speculative  in  expression.  His  emotions  were 
not  warring,  but  the  chaos  in  his  brain  was  such  that  he 
was  fighting  the  logical  case  for  and  against  an  attempt 
to  find  enlightenment  on  the  other  slope  of  the  valley. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  221 

CHAPTER  VI 

VICTORIA  stretched  herself  lazily  in  bed.  Her  eyes  took 
in  a  picture  of  Cairns  on  the  mantelpiece  framed  between 
a  bottle  of  eau-de-cologne  and  the  carriage  clock;  then, 
little  by  little,  she  analysed  details,  small  objects,  powder- 
puffs,  a  Chelsea  candlestick,  an  open  letter,  the  wall  paper. 
She  closed  her  eyes  again  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pil- 
low. The  lace  edge  tickled  her  ear  pleasantly.  She  snug- 
gled like  a  stroked  cat.  Then  she  awoke  again,  for  Mary 
had  just  placed  her  early  cup  of  tea  on  the  night  table. 
The  tray  seemed  to  come  down  with  a  crash,  a  spoon  fell 
on  the  carpet.  Victoria  felt  daylight  rolling  back  sleep 
from  her  brain  while  Mary  pulled  up  the  blinds.  As  light 
flooded  the  room  and  her  senses  became  keener  she  heard 
the  blinds  clash. 

"You're  very  noisy,  Mary,"  she  said,  lifting  herself  on 
one  elbow. 

The  girl  came  back  to  the  bed,  her  hands  folded  to- 
gether. 

"I'm  sorry,  mum.  ...  I  ...  I've  .  .  ." 

"Yes?    What's  the  matter?" 

Mary  did  not  answer,  but  Victoria  could  see  she  was 
disturbed.  Her  cap  was  disarranged;  it  inclined  perhaps 
five  degrees  from  the  vertical.  There  was  a  faint  flush 
on  her  cheeks. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Victoria  sharply.  "Is  there 
anything  wrong?" 

"No,  mum.  .  .  .  Yes,  mum.  .  .  .  They  say  in  the 
paper  .  .  .  There's  been  trouble  in  Ireland,  mum.  .  .  ." 

"In  Ireland?"  Victoria  sat  bolt  upright.  Her  heart 
gave  a  great  bang  and  then  began  to  go  with  a  whirr. 

"At  Rossbantry,  mum  .  .  .  last  night  .  .  .  he's 
shot.  .  .  ." 

"Shot?    Who?    Can't  you  speak?" 

"The  Major,  mum." 

Mary  unfolded  her  hands  suddenly  and  drew  them  up 
and  down  her  apron  as  if  trying  to  dry  them.  Victoria 
sat  as  if  frozen,  looking  at  her  wide-eyed.  Then  she  re- 


222  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

lapsed  on  the  pillow.  Everything  swam  for  a  second,  then 
she  felt  Mary  raising  her  head. 

"Go  away,"  whispered  Victoria.  "Leave  me  for  a  min- 
ute. I'm  all  right." 

Mary  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  obeyed,  softly  clos- 
ing the  door.  Victoria  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling.  Cairns 
was  dead,  shot.  Awful.  A  week  ago  Tiis  heavy  frame  was 
outlined  under  these  very  blankets.  She  shuddered.  But 
why,  how?  It  wasn't  true,  it  couldn't  be  true.  She  sat 
up  as  if  impelled  by  a  spring,  and  rang  the  bell  violently. 
The  broken  rope  fell  on  her  face  in  a  coil.  With  both 
hands  she  seized  her  chin  as  if  to  stop  a  scream. 

"The  paper!  get  me  the  paper!"  she  gasped  as  Mary 
came  in.  The  girl  hesitated.  Victoria's  face  frightened 
her.  Victoria  looked  at  her  straight,  and  she  ran  out  of 
the  room.  In  another  minute  she  had  laid  the  open  paper 
before  her  mistress. 

Victoria  clutched  it  with  both  hands.  It  was  true. 
True.  It  was  true.  The  headlines  were  all  she  could  see. 
She  tried  to  read  the  text,  but  the  letters  danced.  She 
returned  to  the  headlines. 

SHOCKING  OUTRAGE  IN  IRELAND 


LANDLORD  SHOT 

In  the  next  column: — 

M.  C.  C's  HARD  TASK 

Her  heart's  action  was  less  violent  now.  She  understood; 
every  second  increased  her  lucidity.  Shot.  Cairns  was 
shot.  Oh,  she  knew,  he  had  carried  strife  with  him  and 
some  tenant  had  had  his  revenge.  She  took  up  the  paper 
and  could  read  it  now.  Cairns  had  refused  to  make  terms, 
and  on  the  morning  of  his  death  had  served  notices  of 
eviction  on  eighteen  cottagers.  The  same  night  he  was 
sitting  at  a  window  of  his  bailiff's  house.  Then  two  shots 
from  the  other  side  of  the  road,  another  from  lower  down. 
Cairns  was  wounded  twice,  in  the  lung  and  throat,  and 
died  within  twenty  minutes.  A  man  was  under  arrest. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  223 

Victoria  put  down  the  paper.  Her  mind  was  quite  clear 
again.  Poor  old  Tom!  She  felt  sorry  but  above  all  dis- 
turbed; every  nerve  in  her  body  seemed  raw.  Poor  old 
Tom,  a  good  fellow!  He  had  been  kind  to  her;  and  now, 
there  he  was.  Dead  when  he  was  thinking  of  coming  back 
to  her.  He  would  never  see  her  again,  the  little  house  and 
things  he  loved.  Yes,  he  had  been  kind;  he  had  saved  her 
from  that  awful  life  .  .  .  Victoria's  thoughts  turned  into 
another  channel.  What  was  going  to  become  of  her? 

"Old  girl,"  she  said  aloud,  "you're  in  the  cart." 

She  realised  that  she  was  again  adrift,  alone,  face  to  face 
with  the  terrible  world.  Cairns  was  gone;  there  was  no- 
body to  protect  her  against  the  buffeting  waves.  A  milk- 
man's cart  rattled  by;  she  could  hear  the  distant  rumble 
of  the  Underground,  a  snatch  carried  by  the  wind  from 
a  German  band.  Well,  the  time  had  come;  it  had  to 
come.  She  could  not  have  held  Cairns  for  ever;  and  now 
she  had  to  prove  her  mettle,  to  show  whether  she  had 
learned  enough  of  the  world,  whether  she  had  grit.  The 
thought  struck  cold  at  her,  but  an  intimate  counsellor  in 
her  brain  was  already  awake  and  crying  out: 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on!  you  can  do  it  yet." 

Victoria  threw  down  the  paper  and  jumped  out  of  bed. 
She  dressed  feverishly  in  the  clothes  and  linen  she  had 
thrown  in  a  heap  on  a  chair  the  night  before,  twisting  her 
hair  up  into  a  rough  coil.  Just  before  leaving  the  room 
she  remembered  she  had  not  even  washed  her  hands.  She 
did  so  hurriedly;  then,  seeing  the  cold  cup  of  tea,  drank 
it  off  at  a  gulp;  her  throat  felt  parched. 

She  pushed  back  the  untested  dish  on  the  breakfast 
table.  Her  head  between  her  hands,  she  tried  to  think. 
At  intervals  she  poured  out  cups  of  tea  and  drank  them  off 
quickly. 

Snoo  and  Poo,  after  vainly  trying  to  induce  her  to  play 
with  them,  lay  in  a  heap  in  an  armchair  snuffling  as  they 
slept. 

The  better  she  realised  her  position  the  greater  grew 
her  fears.  Once  more  she  was  the  cork  tossed  in  the 
storm;  and  yet,  rudderless,  she  must  navigate  into  the 
harbour  of  liberty.  If  Cairns  had  lived  and  she  had  seen 


224  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  power  over  him  wane,  she  would  have  taken  steps; 
she  did  not  know  what  steps,  but  felt  she  surely  would 
have  done  something.  But  Cairns  was  dead;  in  twenty 
minutes  she  had  passed  from  comparative  security  into  the 
region  where  thorns  are  many  and  roses  few. 

Poor  old  Tom!  She  felt  a  tiny  pang;  surely  this  con- 
cern with  herself  when  his  body  still  lay  unburied  was 
selfish,  ugly.  But,  pooh!  why  make  any  bones  about  it? 
As  Cairns  had  said  himself,  he  liked  to  see  her  beautiful, 
happy,  well  clad.  His  gifts  to  her  were  gifts  to  himself: 
she  was  merely  his  vicar. 

Victoria  drank  some  more  cold  tea.  Good  or  bad, 
Cairns  belonged  to  the  past  and  the  past  has  no  virtues. 
None,  at  any  rate,  for  those  whose  present  is  a  wind-swept 
table-land.  Men  must  come  and  go,  drink  to  the  full  of 
the  cup  and  pay  richly  for  every  sip,  so  that  she  might  be 
free,  hold  it  no  longer  to  their  lips.  There  was  no  time  to 
waste,  for  already  she  was  some  hours  older;  some  of  those 
hours  which  might  have  been  transmuted  into  gold,  that 
saving  gold.  She  must  take  steps. 

The  "steps  to  be  taken,"  a  comforting  sentence,  were 
not  easy  to  evolve.  But  another  comforting  catchword, 
"reviewing  the  situation,"  saved  her  from  perplexity.  She 
went  into  the  little  boudoir  and  took  out  her  two  pass 
books.  The  balance  seemed  agreeably  fat,  but  she  did 
not  allow  herself  to  be  deluded;  she  checked  off  the  debit 
side  with  the  foils  of  her  cheque  book  and  found  that  two 
of  the  cheques  had  not  been  presented.  These  she  de- 
ducted, but  the  result  was  not  unsatisfactory;  she  had 
exactly  three  hundred  pounds  in  one  bank  and  a  few  shill- 
ings over  fifty  pounds  in  the  other.  Three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  Not  so  bad.  She  had  done  pretty  well  in 
these  nine  months.  Of  course  that  banker's  order  of 
Cairns  would  be  stopped.  She  could  hardly  expect  the 
executors  to  allow  it  to  stand.  Thus  her  capital  was  three 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  And  there  was  jewelry,  too, 
worth  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds,  perhaps,  and  lace,  and 
furs.  The  jewelry  might  come  in  handy;  it  could  be 
"gophirised."  The  furniture  wasn't  bad  either. 

Of  course,  she  must  go  on  with  the  house.     It  was  no 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  225 

great  responsibility,  being  held  on  a  yearly  agreement. 
Victoria  then  looked  through  her  accounts;  they  did  not 
amount  to  much,  for  Barbezan  Soeurs,  though  willing  to 
assist  in  extracting  money  by  means  of  bogus  invoices, 
made  it  a  rule  to  demand  cash  for  genuine  purchases. 
Twenty  pounds  would  cover  all  the  small  accounts.  The 
rent  was  all  right,  as  it  would  not  be  due  until  the  end  of 
September.  The  rates  were  all  right,  too,  being  payable 
every  half  year;  they  could  be  ignored  until  the  blue  no- 
tice came,  just  before  Christmas. 

Victoria  felt  considerably  strengthened  by  this  investi- 
gation. At  a  pinch  she  could  live  a  year  on  the  present 
footing,  during  which  something  must  turn  up.  She  tried 
to  consider  for  a  moment  the  various  things  that  might 
turn  up.  None  occurred  to  her.  She  settled  the  difficulty 
by  going  upstairs  again  to  dress.  When  she  rang  for 
Mary  to  do  her  hair,  the  girl  was  surprised  to  find  her 
mistress  perfectly  cool.  Without  a  word,  however,  Mary 
restored  her  hair  to  order.  It  was  a  beautiful  and  elegant 
woman,  perhaps  a  trifle  pale  and  open  mouthed,  who, 
some  minutes  later,  set  out  to  walk  to  Regent's  Park. 

Victoria  sat  back  in  her  chair.  Peace  was  upon  her 
soul.  Perhaps  she  had  just  passed  through  a  crisis,  per- 
haps she  was  entering  upon  one,  but  what  did  it  matter? 
The  warmth  of  July  was  in  the  clear  air,  the  canal  slowly 
carried  past  her  its  film  of  dust.  No  sound  broke  through 
the  morning;  save  the  cries  of  little  boys  fishing  for  in- 
visible fishes,  and,  occasionally,  a  raucous  roar  from  some 
prisoner  in  the  Zoo.  Now  that  she  had  received  the  blow 
and  was  recovering  she  was  conscious  of  a  curious  feeling 
of  lightness;  she  felt  freer  than  the  day  before.  Then  she 
was  a  man's  property,  tied  to  him  by  the  bond  of  interest; 
now  she  was  able  to  do  what  she  chose,  know  whom  she 
chose,  so  long  as  that  money  lasted.  Ah,  it  would  be  good 
one  day  when  she  had  enough  money  to  be  able  to  look  the 
future  in  the  face  and  flaunt  in  its  forbidding  countenance 
the  fact  that  she  was  free,  for  ever  free. 

Victoria  was  no  longer  a  dreamer;  she  was  a  woman 
of  action.  The  natural  sequence  of  her  thoughts  brought 
her  up  at  once  against  the  means  to  the  triumphant  end. 


226  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  say  six  hundred  if  she 
realised  everything,  would  not  yield  enough  to  feed  a 
superannuated  governess.  She  would  need  quite  eight  or 
ten  thousand  pounds  before  she  could  call  herself  free  and 
live  her  dreams. 

"I'll  earn  it,"  she  said  aloud,  "yes,  sure  enough." 

A  little  Aberdeen  terrier  came  bounding  up  to  her, 
licked  her  hand  and  ran  away  after  his  master.  A 
friendly  omen.  Six  hundred  pounds  was  a  large  sum  in 
a  way.  She  could  aspire  to  a  partnership  in  some  business 
now.  A  vision  arose  before  her;  Victoria  Ferris,  milliner. 
The  vision  grew;  Victoria  Ferris  and  Co.,  Limited,  whole- 
salers; then  Ferris'  Stores,  for  clothes  and  boots  and  cheese 
and  phonographs,  with  a  branch  of  Cook's  agency,  a 
Keith  Prowse  ticket  office;  Ferris'  Stores  as  an  octopus, 
with  its  body  in  Knightsbridge  and  a  tentacle  hovering 
over  every  draper  from  Richmond  to  Highgate. 

Yes,  that  was  all  very  well,  but  what  if  Victoria  Ferris 
failed?  "No  good,"  she  thought,  "I  can't  afford  to  take 
risks."  Of  course,  the  idea  of  seeking  employment  was 
absurd.  No  more  ten  hours  a  day  for  eight  bob  a  week  for 
her.  Besides,  no  continuous  references  and  a  game 
leg.  .  .  .  The  situations  crowded  into  and  out  of  Vic- 
toria's brain  like  dissolving  views.  She  could  see  herself 
in  the  little  house,  with  another  man,  with  other  men, 
young  men,  old  men;  and  every  one  of  them  was  rocked 
in  the  lap  of  Delilah,  who  laughingly  shore  off  their  golden 
locks. 

"By  Jove,"  she  said  aloud,  bringing  her  gloved  fist 
down  on  her  knee,  "I'll  do  it." 

Of  course  the  old  life  could  not  begin  again  just  now. 
She  did  not  know  a  man  in  London  who  was  worth  cap- 
turing. She  must  go  down  into  the  market,  stand  against 
the  wall  as  a  courtesan  of  Alexandria  and  nail  a  wreath 
of  roses  against  the  highest  bid.  The  vision  she  saw  was 
now  no  longer  the  octopus.  She  saw  a  street  with  its 
pavements  wet  and  slithering,  flares,  barrows  laden  with 
grass;  she  could  smell  frying  fish,  rotting  vegetables,  burn- 
ing naphtha;  a  hand  opened  the  door  of  a  bar  and,  in  the 
glare,  she  could  see  two  women  with  vivid  hair,  tired  eyes, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  227 

smiling  mouths,  each  one  patiently  waiting  before  a  little 
table  and  an  empty  glass.  Then  she  saw  once  more  the 
courtesan  of  Alexandria,  dim  in  the  night,  not  lit  up  by 
the  sun  of  sweet  Egypt,  but  clad  in  mercerised  cotton  and 
rabbit's  fur,  standing,  watching  like  a  shadow  against  a 
shop  door  in  Regent  Street. 

No,  she  had  not  come  to  that.  She  belonged  to  the 
upper  stratum  of  the  profession,  and,  knowing  it,  could 
not  sink.  Consciousness  was  the  thing.  She  was  not  go- 
ing into  this  fight  soft-handed  or  soft-hearted.  She  knew. 
There  was  high  adventure  in  store  for  her  yet.  If  she 
must  fish  it  should  be  for  trout  not  chub.  Like  a  wise 
woman,  she  would  not  love  lightly,  but  where  money  is. 
There  should  be  no  waiting,  no  hesitating.  That  very 
night  she  would  sup  at  the  Hotel  Vesuvius  ...  all  in 
black  .  .  .  like  an  ivory  Madonna  set  in  ebony  .  .  .  with 
a  tea  rose  in  her  hair  as  a  foil  to  her  shoulders  .  .  .  and 
sweeping  jade  earrings  which  would  swim  like  butterflies 
in  the  heavy  air.  Ah,  it  would  be  high  adventure  when 
Demetrious  knelt  at  the  feet  of  Aphrodite  with  jewels  in 
his  sunburnt  palm,  when  Croesus  bargained  away  for  a 
smile  a  half  of  his  Lydian  wealth. 

She  got  up,  a  glow  in  her  veins  as  if  the  lust  of  battle 
was  upon  her.  Quickly  she  walked  out  of  the  park  to  con- 
quer the  town.  A  few  yards  beyond  the  gates  newspaper 
placards  shouted  the  sensation  of  the  day;  placards  pink, 
brown,  green,  all  telling  the  tale  of  murder,  advertising 
for  a  penny  the  transitory  joy  of  the  fact.  Victoria  smiled 
and  walked  on.  She  let  herself  into  the  house.  It  was 
on  the  stroke  of  one.  She  sat  down  at  the  table,  pressing 
the  bell  down  with  her  foot. 

"Hurry  up,  Mary,"  she  said,  "I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
hunter."' 

A  voice  floated  through  the  window  like  an  echo:  "Irish 
murder;  latest  details." 

"Shut  the  window,  Mary,"  she  said  sharply. 


228  A  BED  OF  ROSES 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  Hotel  Vesuvius  is  a  singular  place.  It  stands  on 
the  north  side  of  Piccadilly,  and  for  the  general  its  stuc- 
coed front  and  severe  sash  windows  breathe  an  air  of 
early  Victorian  respectability.  Probably  it  was  once  a 
ducal  mansion,  for  it  has  all  the  necessary  ugliness,  solid- 
ity and  size;  now  it  is  the  most  remarkable  instance  of 
what  can  be  done  by  a  proprietor  who  remembers  that 
an  address  in  Piccadilly  exempts  him  from  the  rules  which 
govern  Bloomsbury.  One  enters  it  through  a  small  hall 
all  alight  with  white  and  gold  paint.  Right  and  left  are 
the  saloon  bar  and  the  buffet;  this  enables  the  customer 
to  select  either  without  altering  the  character  of  his 
accommodation,  while  assuming  superiority  for  a  judicious 
choice.  A  broad  straight  staircase  leads  up  to  the  big 
supper  room  on  the  first  floor.  Above  are  a  score  of 
private  dining-rooms. 

Victoria  jumped  out  of  the  cab  and  walked  up  the  steps, 
handing  the  liveried  commissionaire  two  shillings  to  pay 
the  cabman.  This  was  an  inspiration  calculated  to  set 
her  down  at  once  with  the  staff  as  one  who  knew  the 
ropes.  In  the  white  and  gold  hall  she  halted  for  a  mo- 
ment, puzzled  and  rather  nervous.  She  had  never  set 
foot  in  the  Vesuvius;  she  had  never  heard  it  mentioned 
without  a  smile  or  a  wink.  Now,  a  little  flushed  and  her 
heart  beating,  she  realised  that  she  did  not  know  her  way 
about. 

Victoria  need  have  had  no  fears.  Before  she  had  time 
to  take  in  the  scene,  a  tall  man  with  a  perfectly  groomed 
head  and  well-fitting  evening  dress  bowed  low  before  her. 

"Madame  wishes  no  doubt  to  deposit  her  wrap,"  he  said 
in  gentle  tones.  His  teeth  flashed  white  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria.  .  .  .  "Yes,  where  is  the  cloak- 
room?" 

"This  way,  madame.  If  madame  will  permit  me.  .  .  ." 
He  pointed  towards  the  end  of  the  hall  and  preceded  her 
steps.  An  elderly  woman  behind  the  counter  received 
Victoria's  wrap  and  handed  her  a  brass  token  without 
looking  at  her.  While  she  pulled  up  her  gloves  she  looked 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  229 

round  curiously.  The  cloak-roqm  was  small;  behind  the 
counter  the  walls  were  covered  by  a  mahogany  rack  with 
some  hundred  pigeon-holes.  The  fiercer  light  of  an  un- 
shaded chandelier  beat  down  upon  the  centre  of  the 
room.  Victoria  was  conscious  of  an  extraordinary  atmo- 
sphere, a  blend  of  many  scents,  tobacco  smoke,  leather; 
most  of  the  pigeon-holes  were  bursting  with  coloured 
wraps,  many  of  them  vivid  blue  or  red;  here  and  there 
long  veils,  soiled  white  gloves  hung  out  of  them ;  a  purple 
ostrich  feather  hung  from  an  immense  black  hat  over  a 
white  and  silver  Cingalese  shawl.  Victoria  turned  sharply. 
The  man  was  inspecting  her  coolly  with  an  air  of  intent- 
ness  that  showed  approval. 

"Where  does  madame  wish  to  go?"  he  asked  as  they 
entered  the  hall.  "In  the  buffet,  perhaps?" 

He  opened  the  door.  Victoria  saw  for  a  second  a  long 
counter  laden  with  bottles,  at  which  stood  a  group  of  men, 
some  in  evening  dress,  some  in  tweed  suits;  she  saw  a 
few  women  among  them,  all  with  smiles  upon  their  faces. 
Behind  the  counter  she  had  time  to  see  the  barmaid,  a 
beautiful  girl  with  dark  eyes  and  vivid  yellow  hair. 

"No,  not  there,"  she  said  quickly.  It  reminded  her  of 
the  terrible  little  bar  of  which  Farwell  had  given  her  a 
glimpse.  "You  are  the  manager,  I  believe.  ...  I  want 
to  go  up  into  the  supper  room." 

"Certainly,  madame;  will  madame  come  this  way?" 

The  manager  preceded  her  up  to  the  first  floor.  On 
the  landing,  two  men  in  tweeds  suddenly  stopped  talking 
as  she  passed.  A  porter  flung  the  glazed  door  open.  A 
short  man  in  evening  dress  looked  at  her,  then  at  the 
manager.  After  a  second's  hesitation  the  two  men  in 
tweeds  followed  her  in. 

The  manager  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  walked  up 
to  the  other  man  and  nodded  towards  the  door. 

"Pas  mat,  hein?" 

"Epatante,"  said  the  short  man.  "Du  chic.  Et  une 
peau!" 

The  manager  smiled  and  turned  to  go  downstairs. 
"Surveillez  moi  c.a,  Anatole,"  he  said. 

Victoria,  meanwhile,  had  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the 


230  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

threshold,  a  little  dazed  by  the  scene.  Though  it  was 
only  half-past  ten,  the  eighty  tables  of  the  Vesuvius  were 
almost  every  one  occupied;  the  crowd  looked  at  first  like 
a  patchwork  quilt.  The  room  was  all  white  and  gold 
like  the  hall;  a  soft  radiance  fell  from  the  lights  hidden 
in  the  cornice;  two  heavy  chandeliers  with  faintly  pink 
electric  bulbs  and  a  few  pink-shaded  lights  on  the  table 
diffused  a  roseate  glow  over  the  scene.  Victoria  felt  like 
an  intruder,  and  her  discomfiture  was  heightened  by  the 
gripping  hot  perfume.  But  already  a  waiter  was  by  her 
side;  she  let  him  be  her  pilot.  In  a  few  seconds  she 
found  herself  sitting  at  a  small  table  alone,  near  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  waiter  reappeared  almost  at 
once  carrying  on  a  tray  a  liqueur  glass  containing  some 
colourless  fluid.  She  had  ordered  nothing,  but  his  adroit- 
ness relieved  her.  Cleverly  the  expert  had  divined  her 
inexperience  and  had  resolved  to  smooth  her  way. 

She  lifted  the  glass  to  her  lips  and  sipped  at  it.  It  was 
good  stuff,  rather  strong.  The  burn  on  her  palate  seemed 
to  brace  her;  she  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  a  pe- 
culiar scene;  for  the  Vesuvius  is  a  luxurious  place,  and 
a  provincial  might  well  be  excused  for  thinking  it  was 
the  Carlton  or  the  Savoy;  indeed,  there  was  something 
more  outwardly  opulent  about  it.  It  suggested  a  place 
where  men  not  only  spent  what  they  had  but  spent  more. 
But  for  a  few  men  in  frock-coats  and  tweeds  it  would 
have  been  almost  undistinguishable  from  the  recognised 
resorts  of  the  fashion.  Victoria  took  stock  of  her  sur- 
roundings; of  the  shining  plate  and  glass,  the  heavy  red 
carpet,  the  red  and  gold  curtains,  drawn  but  fluttering  at 
the  open  windows.  The  guests,  however,  interested  her 
more.  At  half  the  tables  sat  a  woman  and  a  man,  at 
others  a  woman  alone  before  a  little  glass.  What  struck 
her  above  all  was  the  beauty  of  the  women,  the  wealth 
they  carried  on  their  bodies.  Hardly  one  of  them  seemed 
over  thirty;  most  of  them  had  golden  or  vivid  red  hair, 
though  a  few  tables  off  Victoria  could  see  a  tall  woman 
of  colour  with  black  hair  stiffened  by  wax  and  pierced 
with  massive  ivory  combs.  They  mostly  wore  low-necked 
dresses,  many  of  them  white  or  faintly  tinted  with  blue 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  231 

or  pink.  She  could  see  a  dark  Italian-looking  girl  in 
scarlet  from  whose  ears  long  coral  earrings  drooped  to  her 
slim,  cream-coloured  shoulders.  There  was  an  enormously 
stout  woman  with  puffy  pink  cheeks,  strapped  slightly 
into  a  white  silk  costume,  looking  like  a  rose  at  the  height 
of  its  bloom.  There  were  others,  too!  short  dark  women 
with  tight  hair;  minxish  French  faces  and  little  shrewd 
dark  eyes:  florid  Dutch  and  Belgian  women  with  mas- 
sive busts  and  splendid  shoulders,  dazzlingly  white;  Eng- 
lish girls,  too,  most  of  them  slim  with  long  arms  and 
rosy  elbows  and  faintly  outlined  collar  bones.  Many  of 
these  had  the  aristocratic  nonchalance  of  "art"  photo- 
graphs. Opposite  Victoria,  under  the  other  chandelier,  a 
splendid  creature,  white  as  a  lily,  with  flashing  green  eyes, 
copper-coloured  hair,  had  thrown  herself  back  in  her 
armchair  and  was  laughing  at  a  man's  joke.  Her  head 
was  bent  back,  and  as  she  laughed  her  splendid  bust  rose 
and  fell  and  her  throat  filled  out.  An  elderly  man  with 
a  close-clipped  grey  moustache,  immaculate  in  his  well- 
cut  dress  clothes,  leaned  towards  her  with  a  smile  on  his 
brown  face. 

Victoria  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  man  (a  soldier, 
of  course),  and  looked  at  the  others.  They,  too,  were  a 
mixed  collection.  There  were  a  good  many  youths,  all 
clean  shaven  and  mostly  well-groomed ;  these  talked  loudly 
to  their  partners  and  seemed  to  fill  the  latter  with  mer- 
riment; now  and  then  they  stared  at  other  women  with 
the  boldness  of  the  shy.  There  were  elderly  men,  too; 
a  few  in  frock  coats  in  spite  of  the  heat,  some  very  stout 
and  red,  some  bald  and  others  half  concealing  their  scalps 
under  cunning  hair  arrangements.  The  elderly  men  sat 
mostly  with  two  women,  some  with  three,  and  lay  back 
smiling  like  courted  pachas.  By  far  the  greater  number 
of  the  guests,  however,  were  anything  between  thirty  and 
forty;  and  seemed  to  cover  every  type  from  the  smart 
young  captain  with  the  tanned  face,  bold  blue  eyes  and  a 
bristly  moustache,  to  ponderous  men  in  tweeds  or  blue 
reefer  jackets  who  looked  about  them  with  a  mixture  of 
nervousness  and  bovine  stolidity. 

From  every  corner  came  a  steady  stream  of  loud  talk; 


232  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

continually  little  shrieks  of  laughter  pierced  the  din  and 
then  were  smothered  by  the  rattling  of  the  plates.  The 
waiters  flitted  ghostly  through  the  room  with  incredible 
speed,  balancing  high  their  silver  trays.  Then  Victoria 
became  conscious  that  most  of  the  women  round  her  were 
looking  at  her;  for  a  moment  she  felt  her  personality 
shrivel  up  under  their  gaze.  They  were  analysing  her, 
speculating  as  to  the  potentialities  of  a  new  rival,  strip- 
ping off  her  clothes,  too,  and  her  jewels.  It  was  horrible, 
because  their  look  was  more  incisive  than  the  merely 
brutal  glance  by  which  a  man  takes  stock  of  a  woman's 
charms. 

She  pulled  herself  together,  however,  and  forced  herself 
to  return  the  stares.  "After  all,"  she  thought,  "this  is 
the  baptism  of  fire."  She  felt  strengthened,  too,  as  she 
observed  her  rivals  more  closely.  Beautiful  as  most  of 
them  seemed  at  first  sight,  many  of  them  showed  signs 
of  wear.  With  joyful  cruelty  Victoria  noted  here  and 
there  faint  wrinkles  near  their  eyes,  relaxed  mouths,  cheek- 
bones on  which  rosacia  had  already  set  its  mark.  She 
could  not  see  more  than  half  a  dozen  whose  beauty 
equalled  hers;  she  threw  her  head  up  and  drew  back  her 
shoulders.  In  the  full  light  of  the  chandelier  she  looked 
down  at  the  firm  white  shapeliness  of  her  arms. 

"Well,  how  goes  it?" 

Victoria  started  and  looked  up  from  her  contemplation. 
A  man  had  sat  down  at  her  table.  He  seemed  about 
thirty,  fairish,  with  a  rather  ragged  moustache.  He  wore 
a  black  morning  coat  and  a  grey  tie.  His  hands  and 
wrists  were  well  kept  and  emerged  from  pale  blue  cuffs. 
There  was  a  not  unkindly  smile  upon  his  face.  His  tip- 
tilted  nose  gave  him  a  cheerful,  rather  impertinent  ex- 
pression. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Victoria  vaguely.  Then  with 
an  affectation  of  ease.  "Hot,  isn't  it?" 

"Ra-ther,"  said  the  man.    "Had  your  supper?" 

"No,"  said  Victoria,  "I  don't  want  any." 

"Now,  come,  really  that's  too  bad  of  you.  Thought  we 
were  going  to  have  a  nice  little  family  party  and  you're 
off  your  feed." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  233 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Victoria,  smiling.  "I  had  dinner 
only  two  hours  ago."  This  man  was  not  very  attractive; 
there  was  something  forced  in  his  ease. 

"Well,  have  a  drink  with  me,"  he  said. 

"What's  yours?"  asked  Victoria.  That  was  an  inspira- 
tion. The  plunge  braced  her  like  a  cold  bath.  The  man 
laughed. 

"Pop,  of  course.  Unless  you  prefer  a  Pernot.  You 
know  "  'absinthe  makes  the  .  .  .'"  He  stopped  and 
laughed  again.  Victoria  did  likewise  without  understand- 
ing him.  She  saw  that  the  other  women  laughed  when 
men  did. 

They  filled  their  glasses.  Victoria  liked  champagne. 
She  watched  the  little  bubbles  rise,  and  drank  the  glass 
down.  It  was  soft  and  warm.  How  strong  she  felt  sud- 
denly. The  conversation  did  not  flag.  The  man  was 
leaning  towards  her  across  the  table,  talking  quickly. 
He  punctuated  every  joke  with  a  high  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  say,  give  us  a  chance,"  floated  from  the  next 
table.  Victoria  looked.  It  was  one  of  the  English  girls. 
She  was  propped  up  on  one  elbow  on  the  table;  her  legs 
were  crossed,  showing  a  long  slim  limb  and  slender  ankle 
in  a  white  open  work  stocking.  A  man  in  evening  dress 
with  a  foreign-looking,  dark  face  was  caressing  her  bare 
arm. 

"Penny  for  your  thoughts,"  said  Victoria's  man. 

"Wasn't  thinking,"  she  said.     "I  was  looking." 

"Looking?    Are  you  new  here?" 

"Yes,  it's  the  first  time  I've  come." 

"By  Jove!     It  must  be  an  eye-opener."    He  laughed. 

"It  is  rather.    It  doesn't  seem  half  bad." 

"You're  right  there.  I'm  an  old  stager."  A  slightly 
complacent  expression  came  over  his  face.  He  filled  up 
the  glasses.  "You  don't  spoil  the  collection,  you  know," 
he  added.  "You're  a  bit  of  all  right."  He  looked  at  her 
approvingly. 

"Am  I?"  She  looked  at  him  demurely.  Then,  plung- 
ing once  more,  "I  hope  you'll  still  think  so  by  and  by." 
The  man's  eyes  dwelled  for  a  moment  on  her  face  and 
neck,  his  breath  became  audible  suddenly.  She  fell  his 


234  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

foot  softly  stroke  hers,  He  drew  his  napkin  across  his 
lips. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  an  expression  of  ease,"  shall  we 
go?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Victoria,  getting  up. 

It  was  with  a  beating  heart  that  Victoria  climbed  into 
the  cab.  As  soon  as  he  got  in  the  man  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist  and  drew  her  to  him.  She  resisted  gently,  but 
gave  way  as  his  arm  grew  more  insistent. 

"Coy  little  puss."  His  face  was  very  near  her  up- 
turned eyes.  She  felt  it  come  nearer.  Then,  suddenly, 
he  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  She  wanted  to  struggle;  she 
was  a  little  frightened.  The  lights  of  Piccadilly  filled 
her  with  shame.  They  spoke  very  little.  The  man  held 
her  close  to  him.  As  the  cab  rattled  through  Portland 
Place,  he  seized  her  once  more.  She  fought  down  the 
repulsion  with  which  his  breath  inspired:  it  was  scented 
with  strong  cigars  and  champagne.  Victoriously  she  coiled 
one  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 
In  her  disgust  there  was  a  blend  of  triumph;  not  even 
her  own  feelings  could  resist  her  will. 

As  she  waited  on  the  doorstep  while  he  paid  the  cabman, 
a  great  fear  came  upon  her.  She  did  not  know  this  man. 
Who  was  he?  Perhaps  a  thief.  She  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  women  of  her  kind  were  sometimes  murdered 
for  the  sake  of  their  jewelry.  As  the  man  turned  to 
come  up  the  steps  she  pulled  herself  together.  "After 
all,"  she  thought,  "it's  only  a  professional  risk." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  of  the  silent  house. 
She  felt  awkward.  The  man  looked  at  her  and  mistook 
her  hesitation. 

"It's  all  right."  he  faltered.  He  looked  about  him,  then, 
quickly  whipping  out  a  sovereign  purse,  he  drew  out  two 
sovereigns  with  a  click  and  laid  them  on  the  hall  table. 

"You  see,"  he  said  "...  a  girl  like  you  .  .  .  three 
more  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  .  I'm  square,  you  know." 

Victoria  smiled  and,  after  a  second's  hesitation,  picked 
up  the  money. 

"So'm  I,"  she  said.  Then  she  switched  on  the  light 
and  pointed  upstairs. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  235 

CHAPTER  VIII 

VICTORIA'S  new  career  did  not  develop  on  unkindly 
lines.  Every  night  she  went  to  the  Vesuvius,  where  she 
soon  had  her  appointed  place  full  under  one  of  the  big 
chandeliers.  She  secured  this  spot  without  difficulty,  for 
most  of  her  rivals  were  too  wise  to  affront  the  glare;  as 
soon  as  she  realised  this  she  rather  revelled  in  her  sense 
of  power,  for  she  now  lived  in  a  world  where  the  only 
form  of  power  was  beauty.  She  felt  sure  of  her  beauty 
now  she  had  compared  it  minutely  with  the  charms  of 
the  preferred  women.  She  was  finer,  she  had  more  breed. 
Almost  every  one  of  those  women  showed  a  trace  of 
coarseness:  a  square  jaw,  not  moulded  in  big  bone  like 
hers,  but  swathed  in  heavy  flesh;  a  thick  ankle  or  wrist; 
spatulate  fingertips;  red  ears.  Her  pride  was  in  the  cour- 
age with  which  she  welcomed  the  flow  of  the  light  on  her 
neck  and  shoulders;  round  her  chandelier  the  tables 
formed  practically  into  circles,  the  nearest  being  occupied 
by  the  very  young  and  venturesome,  a  few  by  the  oldest 
who  desperately  clung  to  their  illusion  of  immortal  youth ; 
then  came  the  undecided,  those  who  are  between  ages, 
who  wear  thick  veils  and  sit  with  their  back  to  the  light; 
the  outer  fringe  was  made  up  of  those  who  remembered. 
Their  smiles  were  hard  and  fixed. 

She  was  fortunate  enough,  too.  She  never  had  to  sit 
long  in  front  of  the  little  glass  which  she  discovered  to  be 
kummel;  the  waiter  always  brought  it  unasked.  Some- 
times they  would  chat  for  a  moment,  for  Victoria  was 
assimilating  the  lazy  familiarity  of  her  surroundings.  He 
talked  about  the  weather,  the  latest  tips  for  Goodwood, 
the  misfortune  of  Camille  de  Valenciennes  who  had  gone 
off  to  Carlsbad  with  a  barber  who  said  he  was  a  Russian 
prince  and  had  left  her  there  stranded. 

Her  experiences  piled  up,  and  after  a  few  weeks  she 
found  she  had  exhausted  most  of  the  types  who  frequented 
the  Vesuvius.  Most  of  them  were  of  the  gawky  kind, 
being  very  young  men  out  for  the  night  and  desperately 
anxious  to  get  off  on  the  quiet  by  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  of  the  gawky  kind,  too,  were  the  Manchester 


236  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

merchants  paying  a  brief  visit  to  town  on  business  and 
who  wanted  a  peep  into  the  inferno ;  these  were  easily  dealt 
with  and,  if  properly  primed  with  champagne,  exceedingly 
generous.  Now  and  then  Victoria  was  confronted  with  a 
racier  type,  which  tended  to  become  rather  brutal.  It 
was  recruited  largely  from  obviously  married  men  whose 
desires,  damned  and  sterilised  by  monotonous  relations, 
seemed  suddenly  to  burst  their  bonds. 

In  a  few  weeks  her  resources  developed  exceedingly. 
She  learned  the  scientific  look  that  awakes  a  man's  inter- 
est: a  droop  of  the  eyelid  followed  by  a  slow  raising  of 
it,  a  dilation  of  the  pupil,  then  again  a  demure  droop  and 
the  suspicion  of  a  smile.  She  learned  to  prime  herself 
from  the  papers  with  the  proper  conversation,  racing,  the 
latest  divorce  news,  ragging  scandals,  marriages  of  the 
peerage  into  the  chorus.  She  learned  to  laugh  at  chest- 
nuts and  to  memorise  such  stories  as  sounded  fresh;  a 
few  judicious  matinees  put  her  up  to  date  as  to  the  latest 
musical  comedies.  On  the  whole  it  was  an  easy  life 
enough.  Six  hours  in  the  twenty-four  seemed  sufficient  to 
afford  her  a  good  livelihood,  and  she  did  not  doubt  that 
by  degrees  she  would  make  herself  a  connection  which 
might  be  turned  to  greater  advantage;  as  it  was  she  had 
two  faithful  admirers  whom  she  could  count  on  once  a 
week. 

The  life  itself  often  struck  her  as  horrible,  foul;  still 
she  was  getting  inured  to  the  inane  and  could  listen  to  it 
with  a  tolerant  smile;  sometimes  she  looked  dispassion- 
ately into  men's  fevered  eyes  with  a  little  wonder  and  an 
immense  satisfaction  in  her  power  and  the  value  of  her 
beauty.  Sometimes  a  thrill  of  hatred  went  through  her 
and  she  loathed  those  whose  toy  she  was;  then  she  felt 
tempted  to  drink,  to  drugs,  to  anything  that  would 
deaden  the  nausea;  but  she  would  rally:  the  first  night, 
when  she  had  drunk  deep  of  champagne  after  the  kum- 
mel,  had  given  her  a  racking  headache  and  suggested  that 
beauty  does  not  thrive  on  mixed  drinks. 

Another  painful  moment  had  been  the  third  day  after 
her  new  departure.  It  seemed  to  force  realisation  upon 
her.  Tacitly  the  early  cup  of  tea  had  been  stopped. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  237 

Mary  now  never  came  to  the  door,  but  breakfast  was  laid 
for  two  in  the  dining-room  at  half-past  nine;  the  hot 
course  stood  on  a  chafing  dish  over  a  tiny  flame;  the  tea- 
pot was  stocked  and  a  kettle  boiled  on  its  own  stand. 
Neither  of  the  servants  ever  appeared.  On  the  third 
day,  however,  as  Victoria  lay  in  her  boudoir,  reading, 
preparatory  to  ringing  for  the  cook  to  give  her  orders  for 
the  day,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Victoria  a  little  nervously.  She  was 
still  in  the  mood  of  feeling  awkward  before  her  servants. 

Mary  came  in.  For  a  moment  she  tugged  at  her  belt. 
There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her  sallow  face. 

"Well,  Mary?"  asked  Victoria,  still  nervous. 

"If  you  please,  mum,  may  I  speak  to  you?  I've  been 
talking  to  cook,  mum,  and " 

"And?" 

"Oh,  mum,  I  hope  you  won't  think  it's  because  we're 
giving  ourselves  airs  but  it  isn't  the  same  as  it  was  here 
before,  mum " 

"Well?" 

"Well,  mum,  we  think  we'd  rather  go,  mum.  There's 
my  young  man,  mum,  and — and — 

"And  he  doesn't  like  your  being  associated  with  a 
woman  of  my  kind?  Very  right  and  proper." 

"Oh,  mum,  I  don't  mean  that.  You've  always  been  kind 
to  me.  Cook  too,  she  says  she  feels  it  very  much,  mum. 
When  the  major  was  alive,  mum,  it  was  different.  It 
didn't  seem  to  matter  then,  mum,  but  now — 

Mary  stopped.  For  a  moment  the  eyes  behind  the 
glasses  looked  as  if  they  were  going  to  cry. 

"Don't  trouble  to  explain,  Mary,"  said  her  mistress 
with  some  asperity.  "I  understand.  You  and  cook  can't 
afford  to  jeopardise  your  characters.  From  the  dizzy 
heights  of  trained  domesticity,  experts  in  your  own  line, 
you  are  justified  in  looking  down  upon  an  unskilled  la- 
bourer. I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have  considered  the 
social  problem  in  all  its  aspects,  that  you  fully  realise  the 
possibilities  of  a  woman  wage-earner  and  her  future.  By 
all  means  go  where  your  moral  sense  calls  you:  I  shall 
give  you  an  excellent  character  and  demand  none  in 


238  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

exchange.  There!  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
Mary,  I  spoke  hastily,"  she  added  as  the  maid's  features 
contracted,  "you  only  do  this  to  please  your  young  man; 
that  is  woman's  profession,  and  I  of  all  people  must  ap- 
prove of  what  you  do.  If  you  don't  mind,  both  of  you, 
you  will  leave  on  Saturday.  You  shall  have  your  full 
month  and  a  month's  board  allowance.  Now  send  up 
cook,  I  want  to  order  lunch." 

She  could  almost  have  wept  as  she  lay  with  her  face 
in  the  cushion.  Her  servants  had  delivered  an  ultimatum 
from  womanhood,  and  lack  of  supplies  compelled  her  to 
pick  up  the  gage  of  battle.  Mary  and  cook  were  links 
between  her  and  all  those  women  who  shelter  behind  one 
man  only,  and  from  that  vantage  ground  hurl  stones  at 
their  sisters  beyond  the  gates.  The  significance  of  it  was 
not  that  their  services  were  lost  to  her,  but  that  she  must 
now  be  content  to  associate  with  another  class.  Soon, 
however,  her  will  was  again  supreme.  "After  all,"  she 
thought,  "I  have  done  with  society.  I'm  a  pirate;  so- 
ciety'11  be  keen  enough  when  I've  won." 

Within  three  days  she  had  readjusted  her  household. 
She  had  decided  to  make  matters  easy  by  engaging  two 
German  girls.  Laura,  the  cook,  said  at  once  that  it  was 
all  one  to  her  who  came  to  the  house  and  who  didn't, 
so  long  as  they  left  her  alone  in  the  kitchen,  and  provided 
she  might  bring  her  large  tabby  cat.  Augusta  the  maid, 
a  long,  lanky  girl  with  strong  peasant  hands  and  carroty 
hair,  declared  herself  willing  to  oblige  the  herrschajt  in 
any  way;  she  thereupon  demanded  an  increase  on  the 
wages  scheduled  for  her  at  the  registry  office.  She  also 
confided  to  her  new  mistress  that  she  had  a  kerl  in  Ger- 
many, and  that  she  would  do  anything  to  earn  her  dowry. 

Thus  the  establishment  settled  down  again.  Laura 
cooked  excellently.  Augusta  never  flinched  when  bring- 
ing in  the  tea  tray.  Her  big  blue  Saxon  eyes  seemed  to 
allow  everything  to  pass  through  them,  leaving  her  mind 
unsoiled,  so  armoured  was  her  heart  by  the  thought  of 
that  dowry.  As  for  Snoo  and  Poo;  they  chased  the  tabby 
cat  all  over  the  house  most  of  the  day,  which  very  soon 
improved  their  figures. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  239 

Thus  the  even  tenor  of  Victoria's  life  continued.  She 
was  quite  a  popular  favourite.  As  soon  as  she  sat  down 
under  the  chandelier  half-a-dozen  men  were  looking  at 
her.  Sometimes  men  followed  her  into  the  Vesuvius;  but 
these  she  seldom  encouraged,  for  her  instinct  told  her  that 
so  beautiful  a  woman  as  she  was  should  set  a  high  price 
on  herself,  and  high  prices  were  not  to  be  found  in  Pic- 
cadilly. Among  her  faithful  was  a  bachelor  of  forty, 
whom  she  only  knew  as  Charlie.  This,  by  the  way,  was 
a  characteristic  of  her  acquaintances.  She  never  dis- 
covered their  names;  some,  in  fact,  were  so  guarded  that 
they  had  apparently  discarded  their  watches  before  com- 
ing out,  so  as  to  conceal  even  their  initials.  None  ever 
showed  a  pocketbook.  Charlie  was  dark  and  burned  by 
the  sun  of  the  tropics;  there  was  something  bluff  and  good- 
natured  about  him,  great  strength,  too.  He  had  sharp, 
grey  eyes  and  a  dark  moustache.  He  spoke  extraordi- 
narily fast,  talked  loosely  of  places  he  had  been  to:  China, 
Mozambique,  South  America.  Victoria  rather  liked  him; 
lie  was  totally  dull,  inclined  to  be  coarse;  but  as  he  in- 
variably drank  far  too  much  before  and  when  he  came  to 
the  Vesuvius,  he  made  no  demands  on  her  patience,  slept 
like  a  log  and  went  early,  leaving  handsome  recognition 
behind  him. 

There  was  Jim,  too,  a  precise,  top-hatted  city  clerk 
who  had  forced  himself  on  her  one  Saturday  afternoon 
as  she  crossed  Piccadilly  Circus.  He  seemed  such  a  pat- 
tern of  rectitude,  was  so  perfectly  trim  and  brushed  that 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  inveigled  into  a  cab  and  driven 
to  a  small  flat  in  Bayswater.  He  was  too  prudent  to  visit 
anybody  else's  rooms,  he  said ;  he  had  his  flat  on  a  weekly 
tenancy.  Jim  kept  rather  a  hold  on  her.  He  was  neither 
rich  nor  generous;  in  fact,  Victoria's  social  sense  often 
stabbed  her  for  what  she  considered  undercutting,  but 
Jim  used  to  hover  about  the  Vesuvius  five  minutes  before 
closing  time,  and  once  or  twice  when  Victoria  had  had  no 
luck  he  succeeded  like  the  vulture  on  the  stricken  field. 

Most  of  the  others  were  dream  figures;  she  lost  count 
of  them.  After  a  month  she  could  not  remember  a  face. 


240  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  even  forgot  a  big  fellow  whom  she  had  called  Black 
Beauty,  who  came  down  from  somewhere  in  Devonshire 
for  a  monthly  bust;  he  was  so  much  offended  that  she 
had  the  mortification  of  seeing  him  captured  by  one  of 
the  outer  circle  who  sit  beyond  the  lights. 

In  the  middle  of  August  the  streets  she  called  London 
were  deserted.  Steamy  air,  dust  laden,  floated  over  the 
pavements.  The  Vesuvius  was  half  empty,  and  she  had 
to  cut  down  her  standards.  Just  as  she  was  contemplating 
moving  to  Folkestone  for  a  month,  however,  she  received 
a  letter  from  solicitors  in  the  Strand,  Bastable,  Bastable 
&  Sons,  informing  her  that  "re  Major  Cairns  deceased," 
they  were  realising  the  estate  on  behalf  of  the  adminis- 
trators, and  that  they  would  be  obliged  if  she  would  say 
when  it  would  be  convenient  for  her  to  convey  the  furni- 
ture of  Elm  Tree  Place  into  their  hands.  This  perturbed 
Victoria  seriously.  The  furniture  had  a  value,  and  be- 
sides, it  was  the  plant  of  a  flourishing  business. 

"Pity  he  died  suddenly,"  she  thought,  "he'd  have  done 
something  for  me.  He  was  a  good  sort,  poor  old  Tom." 

She  dressed  herself  as  becomingly  and  quietly  as  she 
could,  and,  after  looking  up  the  law  of  intestacy  in  Whit- 
aker,  concluded  that  Marmaduke  Cairns's  old  sisters  must 
be  the  heirs.  Then  she  sallied  forth  to  beard  the  solicitor 
in  his  den.  The  den  was  a  magnificent  suite  of  offices 
just  off  the  Strand.  She  was  ushered  into  a  waiting-room 
partitioned  off  from  the  general  office  by  glass.  It  was  all 
very  frowsy  and  hot.  There  was  nothing  to  read  except 
the  Times  and  she  was  uncomfortably  conscious  of  three 
clerks  and  an  office  boy  who  frequently  turned  round  and 
looked  through  the  partition.  At  last  she  was  ushered  in. 
The  solicitor  was  a  dry-looking  man  of  forty  or  so;  his 
parchment  face,  deeply  wrinkled  right  and  left,  his  keen 
blue  eyes  and  high  forehead  impressed  her  as  dangerous. 
He  motioned  her  to  an  armchair  on  the  other  side  of  his 
desk. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Ferris,"  he  said,  "to  what  do  I  owe  the 
honour  of  this  visit?"  He  sat  back  in  his  armchair  and 
bit  his  penholder.  A  smile  elongated  his  thin  lips.  This 
was  his  undoing,  for  he  looked  less  formidable  and  Victoria 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  241 

decided  on  a  line  of  action.  She  had  come  disturbed,  now 
she  was  on  her  mettle. 

"Mr.  Bastable,"  she  said,  plunging  at  once  into  the 
subject,  "you  ask  me  to  surrender  my  furniture.  I'm  not 
going  to." 

"Oh?"  The  solicitor  raised  his  eyebrows.  "But,  my 
dear  madame,  surely  you  must  see  .  .  ." 

"I  do.     But  I'm  not  going  to." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  hardly  see  ...  My  duty  will  com- 
pel me  to  take  steps  .  .  ." 

"Of  course,"  said  Victoria,  smiling,  "but  if  you  refuse 
to  let  me  alone  I  shall  go  out  of  this  office,  have  the  fur- 
niture moved  to-day  and  put  up  at  auction  to-morrow." 

A  smile  came  over  the  solicitor's  face.  By  Jove,  she 
was  a  fine  woman,  and  she  had  some  spirit. 

"Besides,"  she  added,  "all  this  would  cause  me  a  great 
deal  of  annoyance.  Major  Cairns's  affairs  are  still  very 
interesting  to  the  public.  I  shall  be  compelled,  if  you 
make  me  sell,  to  write  a  serial,  say  My  Life  with  an  Irish 
Martyr  for  a  Sunday  paper." 

Mr.  Bastable  laughed  frankly. 

"You  want  to  be  nasty,  I  see.  But  you  know,  we  can 
stop  your  sale  by  an  application  to  a  judge  in  chambers 
this  afternoon.  And  as  for  your  serial,  well,  Major  Cairns 
is  dead,  he  won't  mind." 

"No,  but  his  aunts  will.  Their  name  is  Cairns.  As 
regards  the  sale,  perhaps  you  and  the  other  lawyers  can 
stop  it.  Very  well,  either  you  promise  or  I  go  home 
and  .  .  .  perhaps  there'll  be  a  fire  to-night  and  perhaps 
there  won't.  I'm  fully  insured." 

"By  Jove!"  Bastable  looked  at  her  critically.  Cairns 
had  been  a  lucky  man.  "Well,  Mrs.  Ferris,"  he  added, 
"we're  not  used  to  troublesome  customers  like  you.  I 
don't  suppose  the  furniture  is  valuable,  is  it?" 

"Oh,  a  couple  of  hundred,"  said  Victoria  dishonestly. 

"M'm.    Do  you  absolutely  want  me  to  pledge  myself?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Ferris,  I  can  honestly  promise  you  that  you 
won't  hear  anything  about  it.  I  ...  I  don't  think  it 
would  pay  us." 


242  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  laughed.  A  great  joy  of  triumph  was  upon 
her.  She  liked  Bastable  rather,  now  she  had  brought  him 
to  heel. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "it's  a  bargain."  Then  she  saw 
that  his  mouth  was  smiling  still  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  her 
face. 

"There's  no  quarrel  between  us,  is  there?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  All  in  the  way  of  business,  you 
know." 

He  bent  across  the  table;  she  heard  him  breathe  in  her 
perfume. 

"Then,"  she  said  slowly,  getting  up  and  pulling  on  her 
gloves,  "I'm  not  doing  anything  to-night.  You  know  my 
address.  Seven  o'clock.  You  may  take  me  out  to  din- 
ner." 

CHAPTER  IX 

WITHIN  a  few  days  of  her  victory  over  Mr.  Bastable, 
Victoria  found  herself  in  an  introspective  mood.  The  so- 
licitor was  the  origin  of  it,  though  unimportant  in  himself 
as  the  grain  of  sand  which  falls  into  a  machine,  and  for  a 
fraction  of  a  second  causes  a  wheel  to  rasp  before  the 
grain  is  crunched  up.  She  reflected,  as  she  looked  out 
over  the  garden,  that  she  was  getting  very  hard.  She  had 
brought  this  man  to  his  knees  by  threats;  she  had  vulgarly 
bullied  him  by  holding  exposure  over  his  head;  she  had 
behaved  like  a  tragedy  queen.  Finally,  with  sardonic  in- 
tention, she  had  turned  the  contest  to  good  account  by  en- 
tangling him  while  he  was  still  under  the  influence  of 
her  personality. 

All  this  was  not  what  disturbed  her;  for  after  all  she 
had  only  lied  to  Bastable,  bullied  him,  threatened  him, 
bluffed  as  to  her  intentions:  she  had  been  perfectly  busi- 
nesslike. Thoughtfully  she  opened  the  little  door  at  the 
end  of  the  hall  and  stepped  out  on  the  outer  landing 
where  the  garden  steps  ended.  Snoo  and  Poo,  asleep  in  a 
heap  in  the  August  blaze,  raised  heavy  eyelids,  and,  yawn- 
ing and  stretching,  followed  her  down  the  steps. 

This  was  a  joyful  little  garden.     The  greater  part  of 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  243 

it  was  a  lawn,  close  cut,  but  disfigured  in  many  places 
by  Snoo  and  Poo's  digging.  Flower  beds  ran  along  both 
sides  and  the  top  of  the  lawn,  while  the  bottom  was  occu- 
pied by  the  pergola,  now  covered  with  massive  red  blooms; 
an  acacia  tree,  and  an  elder  tree,  both  leafy  but  refusing 
to  flower,  shaded  the  bottorn  of  the  garden,  which  was 
effectively  cut  off  by  a  hedge  of  golden  privet.  It  was  a 
tidy  garden,  but  it  showed  no  traces  of  originality.  Vic- 
toria had  ordered  it  to  be  potted  with  geraniums,  carna- 
tions, pinks,  marguerites;  and  was  quite  content  to  ob- 
serve that  somebody  had  put  in  sweet  peas,  clematis  and 
larkspur.  Hers  was  not  the  temperament  which  expresses 
itself  in  a  garden ;  there  was  no  sense  of  peace  in  her  idea 
of  the  beautiful.  If  she  liked  the  garden  to  look  pretty  at 
all,  it  was  doubtless  owing  to  her  heredity. 

Victoria  picked  up  a  couple  of  stones  and  threw  them 
towards  the  end  of  the  garden.  Snoo  and  Poo  rushed 
into  the  privet,  snuffling  excitedly,  while  their  mistress 
drew  down  a  heavy  rose-laden  branch  from  the  pergola 
and  breathed  the  blossoms.  Yes,  she  was  hard,  and  it 
was  beginning  to  make  her  nervous.  In  the  early  days 
she  had  sedulously  cultivated  the  spirit  which  was  making 
a  new  woman  out  of  the  quiet,  refined,  rather  shy  girl 
she  had  been.  There  had  been  a  time  when  she  would 
have  shudderd  at  the  idea  of  a  quarrel  with  the  cabman 
about  an  overcharge;  now  if  it  were  possible,  she  felt 
coldly  certain  that  she  would  cheat  him  of  his  rightful 
fare.  This  process  she  likened  to  the  tempering  of  steel, 
and  called  a  development  of  the  mental  muscles.  She 
rather  revelled  in  this  development  in  the  earlier  days, 
because  it  gave  her  a  sense  of  power;  she  benefited  by  it, 
too,  for  she  found  that  by  cultivating  this  hardness  she 
could  extort  more  money  by  stooping  to  wheedle,  by  ac- 
cepting snubs,  by  flattery  and  lies,  too.  The  consciousness 
of  this  power  redeemed  the  exercise  of  it;  she  often  felt 
herself  lifted  above  this  atmosphere  of  deceit  by  looking 
coldly  at  the  deed  she  was  about  to  do,  recognising  its 
nature  and  doing  it  with  her  eyes  open. 

A  realisation  of  another  kind,  however,  was  upon  Vic- 
toria that  rich  August  day.  In  a  sense  she  was  doing  well. 


244  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Her  capital  had  not  been  touched ;  in  fact,  it  had  probably 
increased,  and  this  in  spite  of  town  being  empty.  She 
had  not  yet  found  the  man  who  would  make  her  fortune; 
but  she  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  appear  if  she  contin- 
ued on  her  even  road,  selecting  without  passion,  judging 
values  and  possibilities.  For  the  moment  she  brushed 
aside  the  question  of  success;  it  was  assured.  But,  after 
success,  what  then?  Say  she  had  four  or  five  hundred  a 
year  at  thirty  and  retired  into  the  country  or  went  to 
America.  What  use  would  she  be  to  herself  or  to  anybody 
if  she  had  learned  exclusively  to  bide  her  time  and  to 
strike  for  her  own  advantage?  Life  was  a  contest  for  the 
poor  and  for  the  rich  alike;  but  the  first  had  to  fight  to 
win  and  to  use  any  means,  fair  or  foul,  while  the  latter 
could  accept  knightly  rules,  be  magnanimous  when  vic- 
torious, graceful  when  defeated. 

"Yes,"  said  Victoria,  "I  must  keep  myself  in  trim.  It's 
all  very  well  to  win  and  I've  got  to  be  as  hard  as  nails 
to  men,  but  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  abruptly.  The  problem  had  solved  itself. 
"Hard  as  nails  to  men,"  did  not  include  women,  for 
"men"  seldom  means  mankind  when  the  talk  is  of  rights. 
She  did  not  know  what  her  mission  might  be.  Perhaps, 
after  she  had  succeeded,  she  would  travel  all  over  Europe, 
perhaps  settle  on  the  English  downs  where  the  west  winds 
blow,  perhaps  even  be  the  pioneer  of  a  great  sex  revolt; 
but  whatever  she  did,  if  her  triumph  was  not  to  be  sterile, 
she  would  need  sympathy,  the  capacity  to  love.  Thus  she 
amended  her  articles  of  war:  "Woman  shall  be  spared,  and 
I  shall  remember  that,  as  a  member  of  a  sex  fighting  an- 
other sex,  I  must  understand  and  love  my  sister  war- 
rior." 

It  was  in  pursuance  of  her  new  policy  that,  on  her  way 
to  the  Vesuvius,  Victoria  dawdled  for  a  moment  at  the 
entrance  of  Swallow  Street,  under  its  portico.  A  few 
yards  beyond  her  stood  a  woman  whom  she  knew  by  sight 
as  having  established  practically  a  proprietary  right  to 
her  beat.  She  was  a  dark  girl,  good-looking  enough,  well 
set  up  in  her  close-fitting  white  linen  blouse,  drawn  tight 
to  set  off  her  swelling  bust.  In  the  dim  light  Victoria 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  245 

could  see  that  her  face  was  rather  worn,  and  that  the 
ravages  of  time  had  been  clumsily  repaired.  The  girl 
looked  at  her  curiously  at  first;  then  angrily,  evidently 
disliking  the  appearance  of  what  might  be  a  dangerous 
rival  in  her  own  preserves.  Victoria  walked  up  and  down 
on  the  pavement.  The  girl  watched  her  every  footstep. 
Once  she  made  as  if  to  speak  to  her.  It  was  ghostly,  for 
passers-by  in  Regent  Street  came  to  and  fro  beyond  the 
portico  like  arabesques.  A  passing  policeman  gave  the 
girl  a  meaning  look.  She  tossed  her  head  and  walked 
away  down  Regent  Street,  while  Victoria  nervously  con- 
tinued down  Swallow  Street  to  Piccadilly. 

These  two  women  were  to  meet,  however.  About  a 
week  later,  Victoria,  happening  to  pass  by  at  the  same 
hour,  saw  the  girl  and  stopped  under  the  arch.  In  another 
second  the  girl  was  by  her  side. 

"What  are  you  following  me  about  for?"  she  snarled. 
"If  you're  a  grote  it's  no  go.  You  won't  teach  the  copper 
anything  he  doesn't  know." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  following  you,"  said  Victoria.  "Only  I 
saw  you  about  and  thought  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you." 

The  girl  shot  a  dark  glance  at  her. 

"What's  your  game?"  she  asked.  "You're  not  one  of 
those  blasted  sisters.  Too  toffish.  Seen  you  come  out 
of  the  Vez',  besides." 

"I'm  in  the  profession,"  said  Victoria  coolly.  "But  that 
doesn't  mean  I've  got  to  be  against  the  others." 

"Doesn't  it!"  The  girl's  eyes  glowed.  "You  don't 
know  your  job.  Of  course  you've  got  to  be  against  the 
others.  We  were  born  like  that.  Or  got  like  that.  What's 
it  matter?" 

"Matter?  Oh,  a  lot,"  said  Victoria.  "We  want  friends, 
all  of  us." 

"Friends.  Oh,  Lord!  The  likes  of  you  and  me  don't 
have  friends.  Women,  they  won't  know  us  ...  too  good. 
Except  our  sort.  We  can't  talk;  we  got  nothing  to  talk  of, 
except  money  and  the  boys.  And  the  boys,  what's  the 
good  of  them?  There's  the  sort  you  pick  up  and  all  you've 
got  to  do's  to  get  what  you  can  out  of  them.  Haven't 
fallen  in  love  with  one,  have  you?"  The  girl's  voice  broke 


246  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

a  little,  then  she  went  on.  "Then,  there's  the  other  sort, 
like  my  Hugo,  p'r'aps  you've  heard  of  him?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  haven't.    What  is  he  like?" 

"Bless  you,  he's  a  beauty."  The  girl  smiled;  her  face 
was  full  of  pride. 

"Does  he  treat  you  well?" 

"So  so.  Sometimes."  The  shadow  had  returned.  "Not 
like  my  first.  Oh,  it's  hard,  you  know,  beginning.  He 
left  me  with  a  baby  after  three  months.  I  was  in  service 
in  Pembridge  Gardens — such  a  swell  house!  I  had  to  keep 
baby.  It  died  then,  jolly  good  thing,  too!  Couldn't  go 
back  to  service.  Everybody  knew." 

The  girl  burst  into  tears  and  Victoria,  putting  an  arm 
around  her,  drew  her  against  her  breast. 

"Everybody  knew,  everybody  knew!"  wailed  the  girl. 

Victoria  had  the  vision  of  a  thousand  spectral  eyes, 
all  full  of  knowledge,  gazing  at  the  housemaid  caught  by 
them  sinning.  The  girl  rested  her  head  against  Victoria's 
shoulder  for  a  moment,  holding  one  of  her  hands.  Sud- 
denly she  raised  her  head  again  and  cleared  her  throat. 

"There,"  she  said,  "let  me  go.  Hugo's  waiting  for  me 
at  the  Carcassonne.  Never  mind  me.  We've  all  got  to 
live,  he-he!" 

She  turned  into  Regent  Street  and  another  "he-he" 
floated  back.  Victoria  felt  a  heavy  weight  at  her  heart; 
poor  girl,  weak,  the  sport  of  one  man,  deceived,  then  a 
pirate  made  to  disgorge  her  gains  by  another  man ;  hand- 
some, subtle,  playing  upon  her  affections  and  her  fears. 
What  did  it  matter?  Was  she  not  in  the  same  position, 
but  freer  because  conscious;  poor  slave  soul.  But  the 
time  had  come  for  Victoria  to  make  for  the  Vesuvius.  "It 
must  be  getting  late,"  she  thought,  putting  up  her  hand 
to  her  little  gold  watch-brooch. 

It  was  gone.  She  had  it  on  when  she  left,  but  it  could 
not  have  dropped  out,  for  the  lace  showed  two  long  rips; 
it  had  just  been  torn  out.  Victoria  stood  frozen  for  a  mo- 
ment. So  this  was  the  result  of  a  first  attempt  at  love. 
She  recovered,  however.  She  was  not  going  to  generalise 
from  one  woman.  "Besides,"  she  thought  bitterly,  "the 
girl's  theories  are  the  same  as  mine.  She  merely  has  nc 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  247 

reservations  or  hesitations.    The  bolder  pirate,  she  is  per- 
haps the  better  brain." 

Then  she  walked  down  Swallow  Street  into  Piccadilly, 
and  at  once  a  young  man  in  loud  checks  was  at  her  side. 
She  looked  up  into  his  face,  her  smile  full  of  covert  prom- 
ise as  they  went  into  the  Vesuvius  together.  Victoria  was 
now  at  home  in  the  market  place,  and  could  exchange  a 
quip  with  the  frequenters.  Languidly  she  dropped  her 
cloak  into  the  hands  of  the  porter  and  preceded  the  young 
man  into  the  supper-room.  As  they  sat  at  the  little  table 
before  the  liqueur,  her  eyes  saw  the  garish  room  through 
a  film.  How  deadening  it  all  was,  and  how  lethal  the 
draughts  sold  here.  An  immense  weariness  was  upon  her, 
an  immense  disgust,  as  she  smiled  full-toothed  on  the 
young  man  in  checks.  He  was  a  cheerful  rattle,  suggested 
the  man  who  has  got  beyond  the  retail  trade  without 
reaching  the  professions,  a  house  agent's  clerk,  perhaps. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  merry  devil,  ha!  ha!"  He  winked  a 
pleasant  grey  eye.  Victoria  noticed  that  his  clothes  were 
too  new,  his  boots  too  new,  his  manners,  too,  a  recent 
acquisition. 

"Don't  worry.  That's  how  you  keep  young,  ha!  ha! 
Besides,  don't  have  much  time  to  mope  in  my  trade." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Victoria  vacuously.  Men  gen- 
erally lied  as  to  their  occupation,  but  she  had  noticed 
that  when  their  imagination  was  stimulated  their  temper 
improved. 

"Inspector  of  bun-punchers,  ha!  ha!" 

"Bun-punchers?" 

"Yes,  bun-punchers.  South  Eastern  Railway,  you 
know.  Got  to  have  them  dated  now.  New  Act  of  Par- 
liament, ha!  ha!" 

Victoria  laughed,  for  his  cockney  joviality  was  infec- 
tious. Then  again  the  room  faded  and  rematerialised  as 
his  voice  rose  and  fell. 

"The  wife  don't  know  I'm  out  on  the  tiles,  ha!  ha! 
She's  in  Streatham,  looking  after  the  smalls.  ...  Oh, 
no,  none  of  your  common  or  garden  brass  fenders.  ..." 

Victoria  pulled  herself  together.     This  was  what  she 


248  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

could  not  bear.  Brutality,  the  obscene  even,  were  prefer- 
able to  this  dreary  trickling  of  the  inane  masquerading 
as  wit.  Yet  she  smiled  at  him. 

"You're  saucy,"  she  said.  "You're  my  fancy  to-night." 
A  shadow  passed  over  the  man's  face.  Then  again  he 
was  rattling  along. 

"Talk  of  inventions?  What'd  you  think  of  mine:  india- 
rubber  books  to  read  in  your  bath?  Ha!  ha!  .  .  ." 

But  these  are  only  the  moths  that  flutter  round  the 
lamp,  too  far  off  to  burn  their  wings.  They  love  to 
breathe  perfume,  to  touch  soft  hands,  gaze  at  bright  eyes 
and  golden  hair;  then  they  flutter  away,  and  the  hand 
that  would  stay  their  flight  cannot  rob  them  even  of  a  few 
specks  of  golden  dust.  In  a  few  minutes  Victoria  sat 
philosophically  before  her  empty  glass  while  Fascination 
Fledgeby  was  by  the  side  of  a  rival,  being  "an  awful 
dog,"  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellow  clerks  on  the  morrow. 
She  was  in  the  mood  when  it  did  not  matter  whether  she 
was  unlucky  or  not.  There  were  quite  two  women  present 
for  every  man  this  hot  August  night.  At  the  next  table 
sat  a  woman  known  as  "Duckie,"  fair,  very  fat  and  rosy; 
she  was  the  vision  bursting  from  a  white  dress  which  Vic- 
toria had  seen  the  first  night.  On  the  first  night  she  had 
embodied  for  Victoria- — so  large,  so  fat,  so  coarsely  ani- 
mal was  she — the  very  essence  of  her  trade;  now  she  knew 
her  better  she  found  that  Duckie  was  a  good  sort,  careless, 
generous,  perfectly  incapable  of  doing  anybody  an  ill 
turn.  She  was  bonne  fille  even,  so  unmercenary  as  some- 
times to  accede  good  humouredly  to  the  pleadings  of  an 
impecunious  youth.  Her  one  failing  was  a  fondness  for 
"a  wet."  She  was  drinking  her  third  whisky  and  soda;  if 
she  was  invited  to  supper  she  would  add  to  that  at  least 
half  a  bottle  of  champagne,  follow  that  up  by  a  couple  of 
liqueurs  and  a  peg  just  before  going  to  bed.  She  carried 
her  liquor  well;  she  merely  grew  a  little  vague. 

"Hot,"  remarked  Duckie. 

"Rather,"  said  Victoria.  "I'm  going  soon,  can't  stick 
it." 

"Good  for  you.  I've  got  to  stay.  Always  harder  for 
grandmas  like  me  when  the  fifth  form  boy's  at  the  sea- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  249 

side.'1  Duckie  laughed,  without  cynicism  though;  she 
had  the  reasoning  powers  of  a  cow. 

Victoria  laughed,  too.  A  foreign-looking  girl  in  scarlet 
bent  over  from  the  next  table,  her  long  coral  earrings 
sliding  down  over  her  collar-bones. 

"Tight  again,"  said  the  girl. 

"As  a  drum,  Lissa,  old  girl!"  said  Duckie  good  tem- 
peredly. 

"Nothing  to  what  you'll  be  by  and  by,"  added  Lissa 
with  the  air  of  a  comforter. 

"Nothing  like,  old  dear!  Have  one  with  me,  Lissa? 
No?  No  offence.  You,  Zoe,  have  a  lord  boyaux?" 

"No  thanks."  Zoe  was  a  good-looking,  short  girl;  her 
French  nationality  written  in  every  line  of  her  round  face, 
plump  figure,  and  hands.  Her  hair  was  pulled  away  from 
the  fat  nape  of  her  neck.  She  looked  competent  and  wide 
awake.  A  housewife  gone  astray.  Lissa,  dark  and  Italian 
looking  in  her  red  dress  and  coral  earrings,  was  more  lan- 
guid than  the  others.  She  was  really  a  Greek,  and  all  the 
grace  of  the  East  was  in  every  movement  of  her  slim 
figure.  In  a  moment  the  four  women  had  clustered  to- 
gether, forgetting  strife. 

Lissa  had  had  a  "Bank  of  Engraving"  note  palmed  off 
on  her  by  a  pseudo-South  American  planter,  and  was 
rightly  indignant.  They  were  still  talking  of  Camille  de 
Valenciennes  and  of  her  misfortunes  with  the  barber. 
Boys,  the  latest  tip  for  Gatwick,  "what  I  said  to  him," 
the  furriers'  sales,  boys  again  .  .  .  Victoria  listened  to 
the  conversation.  It  still  seemed  like  another  world  and 
yet  her  world.  Here  they  were,  she  and  the  other  atoms, 
hostile  every  one,  and  a  blind  centripetal  force  was  knead- 
ing them  together  into  a  class.  Yet  any  class  was  better 
than  the  isolation  in  which  she  lived.  Why  not  go  fur- 
ther, hear  more? 

"I  say,  you  girls,"  she  said  suddenly,  "you've  never 
been  to  my  place.  Come  and  .  .  .  no,  not  dine,  it  won't 
work  .  .  .  come  and  lunch  with  me  next  week." 

Duckie  smiled  heavily. 

"I  don'  min',"  she  said  thickly. 

Zoe  looked  suspicious  for  a  moment. 


250  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Can  I  bring  Fritz?"  asked  Lissa. 

"No,  we  can't  have  Fritz,"  said  Victoria,  smiling.  "La- 
dies only." 

"I'm  on,"  said  Zoe  suddenly.  "I  was  afraid  you  were 
going  to  have  a  lot  of  swells  in.  Hate  those  shows.  Never 
do  you  any  good  and  you  get  so  crumpled." 

"You  might  let  me  bring  Fritz,"  said  Lissa  querulously. 

"No  men,"  said  Victoria  firmly.  "Wednesday  at  one 
o'clock.  All  square?" 

"Thatawright,"  remarked  Duckie.  "Shut  it,  Lissa. 
Fritzawright.  Tellm  its  biz  ...  bizness." 

With  some  difficulty  they  hoisted  Duckie  into  a  cab 
and  sent  her  off  to  Bloomsbury.  As  it  drove  off  she 
popped  her  head  out. 

"Carriage  paid?"  she  spluttered,  "or  C.  O.  D.?" 

Zoe  and  Lissa  walked  away  to  the  circus.  On  her  little 
hall  table,  as  Victoria  went  into  her  house,  she  found  a 
note  scrawled  in  pencil  on  some  of  her  own  notepaper.  It 
was  from  Betty.  It  said  that  Farwell  had  been  stricken 
down  by  a  sudden  illness  and  was  sinking  fast.  His  ad- 
dress followed. 

CHAPTER  X 

IN  a  bed  sitting-room  at  the  top  of  an  old  house  off  the 
Waterloo  Road  three  women  were  watching  by  the  bedside 
of  a  man.  One  was  dressed  in  rusty  black;  she  was  pale 
faced,  crowned  with  light  hair ;  the  other,  shifting  uneasily 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  was  middle-aged  and  very 
stout;  her  breast  rolled  like  a  billow  in  her  half-buttoned 
bodice.  The  third  was  beautiful,  all  in  black,  her  sumptu- 
ous neck  and  shoulders  bare.  None  of  them  moved  for 
a  moment.  Then  the  beautiful  woman  threw  back  her 
cloak  and  her  long  jade  earrings  tinkled.  The  face  on  the 
pillow  turned  and  opened  its  eyes. 

"Victoria,"  said  a  faint  voice. 

"Yes  .  .  .  are  you  better?"  Victoria  bent  over  the 
bed.  The  face  was  copper- coloured;  every  bone  seemed 
to  start  out.  She  could  hardly  recognise  Farwell 's  rough- 
hewn  features. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Not  yet  .  .  .  soon,'-  said  Farwell.    He  closed  his  ej 
once  more. 

"What  is  it,  Betty?"  whispered  Victoria. 

"I  don't  know  .  .  .  hemorrhage  they  say." 

"It's  all  up,  mum,"  whispered  the  landlady  in  Victoria's 
ear.  "Been  ill  two  days  only.  Doctor  said  he  wouldn't 
come  again." 

Victoria  bent  over  the  bed  once  more.  She  could  feel 
the  eyes  of  the  landlady  probing  her  personality. 

"Can't  you  do  something?"  she  asked  savagely. 

"Nothing."  Farwell  opened  his  eyes  again  and  faintly 
smiled.  "And  what's  the  good,  Victoria?" 

Victoria  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  the 
bed.  "Oh,  you  mustn't!"  she  whispered.  "You  .  .  .  the 
world  can't  spare  you!'' 

"Oh,  yes  ...  it  can  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  the  world 
is  like  men  ...  it  spends  everything  on  luxuries  ...  it 
can't  afford  necessaries." 

Victoria  smiled  and  felt  as  if  she  were  going  to  choke. 
The  last  paradox. 

"Are  you  in  pain?"  she  asked. 

"No,  not  just  now.  ...  I  shall  be,  soon.  Let  me 
speak  while  I  can."  His  voice  grew  firmer  suddenly. 

"I  have  asked  you  to  come  so  that  you  may  be  the  last 
thing  I  see;  you,  the  fairest.  I  love  you." 

Not  one  of  the  three  women  moved. 

"I  have  not  spoken  before,  because  when  I  could  speak 
we  were  slaves.  Now  you  are  free  and  I  a  slave.  It  is  too 
late,  so  it  is  time  for  me  to  speak.  For  I  cannot  influence 
you." 

Farwell  shut  his  eyes.     But  soon  his  voice  rose  again. 

"You  must  never  influence  anybody.  That  is  my 
legacy  to  you.  You  cannot  teach  men  to  stand  by  giving 
them  a  staff.  Let  the  halt  and  the  lame  alone.  The 
strong  will  win.  You  must  be  free.  There  is  nothing 
worth  while.  ..."  A  shiver  passed  over  him,  his  voice 
became  muffled. 

"No,  nothing  at  all  ...  freedom  only.  ..." 

He  spoke  quicker.  The  words  could  not  be  distin- 
guished. Now  and  then  he  groaned. 


252  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Wait,"  whispered  Betty,  "it  will  be  over  in  a  minute." 
For  two  minutes  they  waited. 

Victoria's  eyes  fastened  on  a  basin  by  the  bedside,  full 
of  reddish  water.  Then  Farwell's  face  grew  lighter  in 
tone.  His  voice  came  faint  as  the  sound  of  a  spinet. 

"There  will  be  better  times.  But  before  then  fight- 
ing .  .  .  the  coming  to  the  top  of  the  leaders  .  .  .  gold 
will  be  taken  from  the  rich  .  .  .  given  to  the  vile  .  .  . 
pictures  burnt  .  .  .  chaos  .  .  .  woman  rise  as  a  tyrant 
.  .  .  there  will  be  fighting  .  .  .  the  coming  to  the  top 
.  .  ."  His  voice  thinned  down  to  nothing  as  his  wandering 
mind  repeated  his  prediction.  Then  he  spoke  again. 

"You  are  a  rebel  .  .  .  you  will  lead  .  .  .  you  have  un- 
derstood .  .  .  only  by  understanding  are  you  saved.  I 
asked  you  to  come  here  to  tell  you  to  go  on  ...  earn 
your  freedom  ...  at  the  expense  of  others." 

"Why  at  the  expense  of  others?"  asked  Betty,  leaning 
over  the  bed.  Farwell  was  hypnotising  her.  His  eyes 
wandered  to  her  face. 

"Too  late  .  .  ."  he  said,  "you  do  not  see  .  .  .  you  are 
a  slave  ...  a  woman  has  only  one  weapon  .  .  .  other- 
wise, a  slave  .  .  .  ask  .  .  .  ask  Victoria."  He  closed  his 
eyes,  but  went  on  speaking. 

"There  is  not  freedom  for  everybody  .  .  .  capitalism 
means  freedom  for  a  few  .  .  .  you  must  have  freedom, 
like  food  .  .  .  food  for  the  soul  .  .  .  you  must  capture 
the  right  to  respect  ...  a  woman  may  not  toil  .  .  . 
make  money  ..." 

Then  again:  "I  am  going  into  the  blackness  ...  be- 
fore Death  .  .  .  the  Judge  .  .  .  Death  will  judge 
me.  .  .  ." 

"  'E's  thinking  of  his  Maker,  poor  genelman,"  said  the 
landlady  hoarsely. 

Victoria  and  Betty  looked  at  one  another.  Agnostic  or 
indifferent  in  their  cooler  moments,  the  superstition  of 
their  ancestors  worked  in  their  blood,  powerfully  assisted 
by  the  spectacle  of  this  being  passing  step  by  step  into  an 
unknown.  There  must  be  life  there,  feeling,  loving. 
There  must  be  Something. 

The  voice  stopped.     Betty  had  seized  Victoria's  arm 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  253 

and  now  clutched  it  violently.  Victoria  could  feel  through 
her  own  body  the  shudders  that  shook  the  girl's  frame. 
Then  Farwell's  voice  rose  again,  louder  and  louder,  like 
the  upward  flicker  of  a  dying  candle. 

"Yes,  freedom's  my  message,  the  right  to  live.  This 
world  into  which  we  are  evolved  by  a  selfish  act  of  joy, 
into  which  we  are  dragged  unwilling  with  pain  for  our 
usher,  it  is  a  world  which  has  no  justification  save  the 
freedom  to  enjoy  it  as  we  may.  I  have  lived  a  stoic,  but 
it  is  a  hedonist  I  die.  Unshepherded  I  go  into  a  perhaps. 
But  I  regret  nothing  ...  all  the  certainties  of  the  past 
are  not  worth  the  possible  of  the  future.  Behind  me  oth- 
ers tread  the  road  that  leads  up  the  hill." 

He  paused  for  breath.  Then  again  his  voice  arose  as  a 
cry,  proclaiming  his  creed. 

"On  the  top  of  the  hill.  There  I  see  the  unknown  land, 
running  with  milk  and  honey.  I  see  a  new  people;  beau- 
tiful young,  beautiful  old.  Its  fathers  have  ground  the 
faces  of  the  helots;  they  have  fought  and  lusted,  they 
have  suffered  contumely  and  stripes.  Now  they  know  the 
Law,  the  Law  that  all  may  keep  because  they  are  beyond 
the  Law.  They  do  not  desire,  for  they  have,  they  do  not 
weigh,  for  they  know.  They  have  not  feared,  they  have 
dared;  they  have  spared  no  man,  nor  themselves.  Ah! 
now  they  have  opened  the  Golden  Gates.  .  .  ." 

The  man's  voice  broke,  he  coughed,  a  thin  stream  of 
blood  trickled  from  the  side  of  his  mouth.  Victoria  felt 
a  film  come  over  her  eyes.  She  leant  over  him  to  staunch 
the  flow.  They  saw  one  another  then.  Farwell's  voice 
went  down  to  a  whisper. 

"Victoria  .  .  .  victorious  .  .  .  my  love  .  .  .  never 
more.  ..." 

She  looked  into  his  glazing  eyes. 

"Beyond  .  .  ."  he  whispered;  then  his  head  fell  to  one 
side  and  his  jaw  dropped". 

Betty  turned  away.  She  was  crying.  The  landlady 
wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron.  Victoria  hesitatingly  took 
hold  of  Farwell's  wrist.  He  was  dead.  She  looked  at  him 
stupidly  for  a  moment,  then  drew  her  cloak  round  her 
shivering  shoulders.  The  landlady,  too,  was  crying  now. 


254  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Oh,  mum,  sich  a  nice  genelman,"  she  moaned.  "But 
'e  did  go  on  so!" 

Victoria  smiled  pitifully.  What  an  epitaph  for  a  sun- 
set !  She  drove  away  with  Betty  and,  as  the  horse  trotted 
through  the  deserted  streets,  hugged  the  girl  in  her  arms. 
Betty  was  shuddering  violently,  and  nestled  close  up  to 
her.  They  did  not  speak.  Everything  seemed  to  have 
become  loose  in  Victoria's  mind  and  to  be  floating  on  a 
black  sea.  The  pillar  of  her  individualism  was  down. 
Her  codes  were  in  the  melting  pot;  a  man,  the  finest  she 
had  known,  had  confessed  his  love  in  his  extremity,  and 
before  she  could  respond  passed  into  the  shadow.  But 
Farwell  had  left  her  as  a  legacy  the  love  of  freedom  for 
which  he  died,  for  which  she  was  going  to  live. 

When  they  arrived  at  Elm  Tree  Place,  Victoria  forced 
Betty  to  drink  some  brandy,  to  tell  her  how  Farwell  had 
sent  her  a  message,  asking  her  to  send  him  Victoria,  how 
she  had  waited  for  her. 

"Oh,  it  was  awful,"  whispered  Betty,  "the  maid  said 
you'd  be  late  .  .  .  she  said  I  mustn't  wait  because  you 
might  not  ..." 

"Not  come  home  alone?"  said  Victoria  in  a  frozen 
voice. 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it."  Betty  flung  her- 
self into  her  friend's  arms,  wildly  weeping. 

Victoria  soothed  her,  made  her  undress.  As  Betty  grew 
more  collected  she  let  drop  a  few  words. 

"Oh,  so  then  you,  too,  are  happy?"  said  Victoria,  smil- 
ing faintly. 

"You  love?"    A  burning  blush  rose  over  Betty's  face. 

That  night,  as  in  the  old  Finsbury  days,  they  lay  in 
one  another's  arms  and  Victoria  grappled  with  her  sorrow. 
Gentle,  almost  motherly,  she  watched  over  this  young  life; 
blushing,  full  of  promise,  preparing  already  to  replace  the 
dead. 

CHAPTER  XI 

THE  death  of  Farwell  seemed  to  leave  Victoria  strug- 
gling and  gasping  for  brerf\  1"-^  °  shipwrecked  mariner 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  255 

vho  tries  to  secure  his  footing  on  shifting  sand  while 
waves  knock  him  down  every  time  he  rises  to  his  knees. 
Though  she  hardly  ever  saw  him  and  though  she  had  no 
precise  idea  that  he  cared  for  her  more  than  does  the 
scientist  for  the  bacteria  he  observes,  he  had  been  her 
tower  of  strength.  He  was  there,  like  the  institutions 
which  make  up  civilisation,  the  British  Constitution,  the 
bank  and  the  established  church.  Now  he  was  gone  and 
she  saw  that  the  temple  of  life  was  empty.  He  was  the 
last  link.  Cairns's  death  had  turned  her  out  among  the 
howling  wolves ;  now  Farwell  seemed  to  have  carried  away 
with  him  her  theory  of  life.  Above  all,  she  now  knew  no- 
body; save  Betty,  who  counted  as  a  charming  child.  It 
was  then  she  began  to  taste  more  cruelly  the  isolation  of 
her  class. 

In  the  early  days,  when  she  paced  up  and  down  fiercely 
in  the  room  at  Portsea  Place,  she  had  already  realised  that 
she  was  alone,  but  then  she  was  not  an  outcast;  the  doors 
of  society  were,  if  not  open,  at  any  rate  not  locked  against 
her.  Then  the  busy  hum  of  the  Rosebud  and  the  P.R.R., 
the  back-breaking  work,  the  hustle,  the  facile  friendships 
with  city  beaus — all  this  had  drawn  a  veil  over  her  soli- 
tude. Now  she  was  really  alone,  because  none  knew  and 
none  would  know  her.  Her  beauty,  her  fine  clothes,  con- 
tributed to  clear  round  her  a  circle  as  if  she  were  a  leper. 
At  times  she  would  talk  to  a  woman  in  a  park,  but  before 
a  few  sentences  had  passed  her  lips  the  woman  would  take 
in  every  detail  of  her,  her  clean  gloves,  her  neat  shoes, 
her  lace  handkerchief,  her  costly  veil;  then  the  woman's 
face  would  grow  rigid,  and  with  a  curt  "good  morning" 
she  would  rise  from  her  seat  and  go. 

Victoria  found  herself  thrust  back,  like  the  trapper  in 
the  hands  of  Red  Indians;  like  him  she  ran  in  a  circle, 
clubbed  back  towards  the  centre  every  time  she  tried  to 
escape.  She  was  of  her  class,  and  none  but  her  class 
would  associate  with  her.  Women  such  as  herself  gladly 
talked  to  her,  but  their  ideas  sickened  her,  for  life  had 
taught  them  nothing  but  the  ethics  of  the  sex-trade. 
Their  followers,  too — barbers,  billiard  markers,  shady 
bookmakers,  unemployed  potmen;  who  sometimes  dared 


256  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  foist  themselves  on  her — filled  her  with  yet  greater  fear 
and  disgust,  for  they  were  the  only  class  of  men  alterna- 
tive to  those  on  whose  bounty  she  lived.  Thus  she  with- 
drew herself  away  from  all;  sometimes  a  craving  for  so- 
ciety would  throw  her  into  equivocal  converse  with  Au- 
gusta, whose  one  idea  was  the  dowry  she  must  take  back 
to  Germany.  Then,  tiring  of  her,  she  would  snatch  up 
Snoo  and  Poo  and  pace  round  and  round  her  tiny  lawn 
like  a  squirrel  in  its  wheel. 

A  chance  meeting  with  Molly  emphasised  her  isolation, 
like  the  flash  of  lightning  which  leaves  the  night  darker. 
She  was  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  Sandringham  Tea 
House  in  Bond  Street,  looking  into  the  side  window  of  the 
photographer  who  runs  a  print  shop  on  the  ground  floor. 
Some  sprawling  Boucher  beauties  in  delicate  gold  frames 
fascinated  her.  She  delighted  in  the  semi-crude,  semi- 
sophisticated  atmosphere,  the  rotundity  of  the  well-fed 
bodies,  their  ribald  rosy  flesh.  As  she  was  wondering 
whether  they  would  not  do  for  the  stairs  the  door  opened 
suddenly  and  a  plump  little  woman  almost  rushed  into  her 
arms.  The  little  woman  apologised,  giving  her  a  quick 
look.  Then  the  two  looked  at  one  another  again. 

"Victoria!"  cried  Molly,  for  it  was  she,  with  .her  wide- 
open,  blue  eyes,  small  nose,  fair,  grizzy  hair. 

A  thrill  of  joy  and  fear  ran  through  Victoria.  She  felt 
her  personality  criddle  up  like  a  scorched  moth,  then  ex- 
pand like  a  flower  under  gentle  dew.  She  was  found  out; 
the  terrible  female  instinct  was  going  to  detect  her,  then 
to  proclaim  her  guilt.  However,  bravely  enough,  she 
braced  herself  up  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Vic,  why  haven't  you  written  to  me  for,  let  me 
see,  three  years,  isn't  it?" 

"I've  been  away,  abroad,"  said  Victoria  slowly.  She 
seemed  to  float  in  another  world.  Molly  was  talking  vig- 
orously; Victoria's  brain,  feverishly  active,  was  making 
up  the  story  which  would  have  to  be  told  when  Molly's 
cheerful  egotism  had  had  its  way. 

"Don't  let's  stay  here  on  the  doorstep,"  she  interrupted, 
"let's  go  upstairs  and  have  tea.  You  haven't  had  tea 
yet?" 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  257 

"I  should  love  to,"  said  Molly,  squeezing  her  arm. 
"Then  you  can  tell  me  about  yourself." 

Seated  at  a  little  table  Molly  finished  her  simple  story. 
She  had  married  an  army  chaplain,  but  he  had  given  up 
his  work  in  India  and  was  now  rector  of  Pontyberis  in 
Wales.  They  had  two  children.  Molly  was  up  in  town 
merely  to  break  the  journey,  as  she  was  going  to  stay  with 
her  aunt  in  Kent.  Oh,  yes,  she  was  very  happy,  her  hus- 
band was  very  well. 

"They're  talking  of  making  him  Dean  of  Ffwr,"  she 
added  with  unction.  "But  that's  enough  about  me.  How 
have  you  been  getting  on,  Vic?  I  needn't  ask  how  you 
are;  one  only  has  to  look  at  you."  Molly's  eyes  roved 
over  her  friend's  beautiful  young  face,  her  clothes  which 
she  appraised  with  the  skill  of  those  poor  who  are  learned 
in  the  fashions. 

"I?    Oh,  I'm  very  well,"  said  Victoria  hysterically. 

"Yes,  but  how  have  you  been  getting  on?  Weren't  you 
talking  about  having  to  work  when  you  came'  over?" 

"Yes,  but  I've  been  lucky  ...  a  week  after  I  got  here 
an  aunt  of  my  mother's  -died  of  whom  I  never  even  heard 
before.  They  told  me  at  Dick's  lawyers  a  month  later, 
and  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  there  was  no  will  and  I  came 
in  for  ...  well,  something  quite  comfortable." 

Molly  put  out  her  hand  and  stroked  Victoria's. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "Oh,  you  don't  know  how 
hard  it  is  to  have  to  work  for  your  living.  I  see  something 
of  it  in  WTales.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  .  .  ." 

Victoria  pressed  her  lips  together,  as  if  about  to  cry  or 
laugh. 

"But  what  did  you  do  then?  You  only  wrote  once. 
You  didn't  tell  me?" 

"No,  I  only  heard  a  month  after,  you  know.  Oh,  I  had 
•a  lot  to  do.  I  travelled  a  lot.  I've  been  in  America  a 
good  deal.  In  fact,  my  home  is  in  ...  Alabama."  She 
plunged  for  Alabama,  feeling  sure  that  New  York  was  un- 
safe. 

"Oh,  how  nice,"  said  Molly  ingenuously.  "You  might 
have  sent  me  picture  postcards,  you  know." 

Skilfully  enough  Victoria  explained  that  she  had  lost 


258  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Molly's  address.  Her  friend  blissfully  accepted  all  she 
said,  but  a  few  other  women  less  ingenuous  than  the 
clergyman's  wife  were  casting  sharp  glances  at  her.  When 
they  parted,  Victoria  audaciously  giving  her  address  as 
"care  of  Mrs.  Ferris,  Elm  Tree  Place,"  she  threw  herself 
back  on  the  cushions  of  the  cab  and  told  herself  that  she 
could  not  again  go  through  with  the  ordeal  of  facing  her 
own  class.  She  almost  hungered  for  the  morrow,  when 
she  was  to  entertain  the  class  she  had  adopted. 

CHAPTER  XII 

THE  Fulton  household  had  always  been  short  of  money, 
for  Dick  spent  too  much  himself  to  leave  anything  for  en- 
tertaining; thus  Victoria  had  very  little  experience  of 
lunch  parties.  Since  she  had  left  the  Holts  she  hardly  re- 
membered a  bourgeois  meal.  The  little  affair  on  the  Wed- 
nesday was  therefore  provocative  of  much  thought. 
Mutton  was  dismissed  as  common,  beef  in  any  form  as 
coarse;  Laura's  suggestion  (for  Laura  and  Augusta  had 
been  called  in)  of  a  savoury  sauerkraut  ("mit  blutwurst, 
Frankfurter,  Leberwurst,  etc."),  was  also  dismissed.  Both 
servants  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  occasion. 

"But  why  no  gentleman  come?"  asked  Laura,  who  was 
clearly  ill-disposed  to  do  her  best  for  her  own  sex. 

"In  the  house  I  was  .  .  ."  began  Augusta  .  .  .  then 
she  froze  up  under  Victoria's  eye.  Her  mistress  still  had 
a  strain  of  the  prig  in  her. 

Then  Augusta  suggested  hors  d'oeuvres,  smoked  salmon, 
anchovies,  olives,  radishes;  Laura  forced  forward  fowl  a  la 
Milanaise  to  be  preceded  by  baked  John  Dory  cayenne. 
Then  Augusta  in  a  moment  of  inspiration  thought  of 
French  beans  and  vegetable  marrow  .  .  .  stuffed  with 
chestnuts.  The  three  women  laughed,  Laura  clapped  her 
hands  with  the  sheer  joy  of  the  creative  artist. 

When  Victoria  came  into  the  dining-room  at  half-past 
twelve  she  was  almost  dazzled  by  her  own  magnificence. 
Neither  the  Carlton  nor  the  Savoy  could  equal  the  blaze 
of  her  plate,  the  brilliant  polish  of  her  tablecloths.  The 
dahlias  blazed  dark  red  in  cut  glass  by  the  side  of  pale 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  259 

belated  roses  from  the  garden.  On  the  sideboard  fat 
peaches  were  heaped  in  a  modern  Lowestoft  bowl,  and 
amber-coloured  plums  lay  like  portly  dowagers  in  velvet. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  hour  Zoe  and  Lissa  arrived 
together.  They  were  nervous;  not  on  account  of  Vic- 
toria's spread,  for  they  were  of  the  upper  stratum,  but 
because  they  were  in  a  house.  Accustomed  to  their  small 
flats  off  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  where  tiny  kitchens  jostled 
with  bedroom  and  boudoir,  they  were  frightened  by  the 
suggestion  of  a  vast  basement  out  of  which  floated  the 
savoury  aroma  of  the  John  Dory  baking.  Victoria  tried  to 
put  them  at  their  ease,  took  their  parasols  away  and 
showed  them  into  the  boudoir.  There  they  sat  in  a  tri- 
angle, the  hot  sun  blazing  in  upon  them,  stiff  and  starched 
with  the  formality  of  those  who  are  seldom  formal. 

"Have  a  Manhattan  cocktail?"  asked  the  hostess  . 

"No  thanks;  very  hot,  isn't  it?"  said  Lissa  in  her  most 
refined  manner.  She  was  looking  very  pretty,  dark,  slim 
and  snaky  in  her  close-fitting  lemon-coloured  frock. 

"Very  hot,"  chimed  in  Zoe.  She  was  sitting  unneces- 
sarily erect.  Her  flat  French  back  seemed  to  abhor  the 
easy  chair.  Her  tight  hair,  her  trim  hands,  her  well-boned 
collar,  everything  breathed  neatness,  well-laced  stays,  a 
full  complement  of  hooks  and  eyes.  She  might  have  been 
the  sedate  wife  of  a  prosperous  French  tradesman. 

"Yes,  it  is  hot,"  said  Victoria. 

Then  the  conversation  flagged.  The  hostess  tried  to 
draw  out  her  guests.  They  were  obviously  anxious  to 
behave.  Lissa  posed  for  "The  Sketch,"  Zoe  remained 
tres  correcte. 

"Do  you  like  my  pictures?"  asked  Victoria,  pointing  to 
the  French  engravings. 

"They  are  very  pretty,"  said  Lissa. 

"I  am  very  interested  in  engravings,"  said  Zoe,  looking 
at  the  rosewood  clock.  There  was  a  longish  pause. 

"I  must  show  you  my  little  dogs,"  cried  Victoria.  She 
must  do  something.  She  went  out  to  the  landing  and 
opened  the  garden  door.  There  she  met  Augusta  carry- 
ing a  trayful  of  finger  bowls.  She  felt  inspired  to  over- 
turn it  if  only  to  break  the  ice.  Snoo  and  Poo  rushed  in, 


260  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

but  in  the  boudoir  they  also  instinctively  became  very 
well-bred. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  dogs,"  said  Lissa.  Snoo  lay  down 
on  her  back. 

"She  is  very  pretty,"  remarked  Zoe. 

Victoria  punched  the  dogs  in  the  ribs,  rolled  them  over. 
It  was  no  good.  They  would  do  nothing  but  gently  wag 
their  tails.  She  felt  she  would  like  to  swear,  when  sud- 
denly the  front  door  slammed,  a  cheerful  voice  rang  in  the 
hall. 

"Hulloa,  here's  Duckie,"  said  Lissa. 

The  door  opened  loudly  and  Duckie  seemed  to  rush  in 
as  if  seated  on  a  high  wind. 

"Here  we  are  again!"  cried  the  buxom  presence  in 
white.  Every  one  of  her  frills  rattled  like  metal.  "Late 
as  usual.  Oh,  Vic,  what  angel  pups!" 

Duckie  was  on  her  knees.  In  a  moment  she  had  stirred 
up  the  Pekingese.  They  forgot  their  manners.  They 
barked  vociferously;  and  Zoe's  starch  was  taken  out  of 
her  by  Poo,  who  rushed  under  -her  skirts.  Lissa  laughed 
and  jumped  up. 

"Here,  Vic,"  said  Duckie  ponderously,  "give  us  a  hand, 
old  girl.  Never  can  jump  about  after  gin  and  bitters," 
she  added  confidentially  as  they  'helped  her  up. 

The  ice  was  effectually  broken.  They  filed  into  the 
dining-room  in  pairs,  Victoria  and  Lissa,  being  slim,  play- 
ing the  part  of  men.  How  they  gobbled  up  the  hors 
d'ceuvres  and  how  golden  the  John  Dory  was;  the  flanks 
of  the  fish  shone  like  an  old  violin.  Augusta  flitted  about 
quick  but  noisy.  There  was  a  smile  on  her  face. 

"Steady  on,  old  love,"  said  Duckie  to  her  as  the  maid 
inadvertently  poured  her  claret  into  a  tumbler. 

"Never  you  mind,  Gussie,"  cried  Zoe,  bursting  with  fa- 
miliarity, "she'll  be  having  it  in  a  bucket  by  and  by." 

Augusta  laughed.     What  easy  going  herrschajt! 

The  talk  was  getting  racier  now.  By  the  time  they 
got  to  the  dessert  the  merriment  was  rather  supper  than 
lunch-like. 

"Victoria  plums,"  said  Lissa,  "let  us  name  them  Bonne 
Hotesse." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  261 

The  idea  was  triumphant.  Duckie  insisted  on  drinking 
a  toast  in  hock,  for  she  never  hesitated  to  mix  her  wines. 
Victoria  smiled  at  them  indulgently.  The  youth  of  all  this 
and  the  jollity,  the  ease  of  it;  all  that  was  not  of  her 
old  class. 

"Confusion  to  the  puritans,"  she  cried,  and  drained  her 
glass.  Snoo  and  Poo  were  fighting  for  scraps,  for  Duckie 
was  already  getting  uncertain  in  her  aim.  Lissa  and  Zoe, 
like  nymphs  teasing  Bacchus,  were  pelting  her  with  plum 
stones,  but  she  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  their  pranks. 
They  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  her  into  the  boudoir 
for  coffee  and  liqueurs;  once  on  the  sofa  she  tried  to  go 
to  sleep.  Her  companions  roused  her,  however;  the  scent 
of  coffee,  acrid  and  stimulating,  stung  their  nostrils;  the 
liqueurs  shone  wickedly,  green  and  golden  in  their  glass 
bottles;  talk  became  more  individual,  more  reminiscent. 
Here  and  there  a  joke  shot  up  like  a  rocket  or  stuck  quiv- 
ering in  Duckie's  placid  flanks. 

"Well,  Vic,"  said  Zoe,  "you  are  very  well  installee." 
She  slowly  emptied  of  cigarette  smoke  her  expanded  cheeks 
and  surveyed  the  comfortable  little  room. 

"Did  you  do  it  yourself?"  asked  Lissa.  "It  must  have 
cost  you  a  lot  of  money." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  pay."  Victoria  was  either  getting  less 
reticent  or  the  liqueur  was  playing  her  tricks.  "I  began 
with  a  man  who  set  me  up  here,"  she  added;  "he  was  .  .  . 
he  died  suddenly,"  she  went  on  more  cautiously. 

"Oh!"  Zoe's  eyebrows  shot  up.  "That's  what  I  call 
luck.  But  why  do  you  not  have  a  flat?  It  is  cheaper." 

"Yes,  but  more  inconvenient,"  said  Lissa.  "Ah,  Vic. 
I  do  envy  you.  .  You  don't  know.  We're  always  in 
trouble.  We  are  moving  every  month." 

"But  why?"  asked  Victoria.    "Why  must  you  move?" 

"Turn  you  out.  Neighbours  talk  and  then  the  land- 
lord's conscience  begins  to  prick  him,"  grumbled  Duckie 
from  the  sofa. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Victoria.  "But  when  they  turn  you 
out  what  do  you  do?" 

"Go  somewhere  else,  softy,"  said  Duckie. 


262  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"But  then  what  good  does  it  do?" 

All  the  women  laughed. 

"Law,  who  cares?"  said  Duckie.    "I  dunno." 

"It  is  perfectly  simple,"  began  Zoe  in  her  precise  for- 
eign English.  "You  see  the  landlord  he  will  not  let  flats 
to  ladies.  When  the  police  began  to  watch  it  would  cause 
him  des  ennuis.  So  he  lets  to  a  gentleman  who  sublets 
the  flats,  you  see?  When  the  trouble  begins,  he  doesn't 
know." 

"But  what  about  the  man  who  sublets?"  asked  the 
novice. 

"Him?  Oh,  he's  gone  when  it  begins,"  said  Lissa. 
"But  they  arrest  the  hall  porter." 

"Justice  must  have  its  way,  I  see,"  said  Victoria. 

"What  you  call  justice,"  grumbled  Duckie,  "I  call  it 
damned  hard  lines." 

For  some  minutes  Victoria  discussed  the  housing  prob- 
lem with  the  fat,  jolly  woman.  Duckie  was  in  a  cheerful 
mood.  One  could  hardly  believe,  when  one  looked  at  her 
puffy,  pink  face,  that  she  had  seen  fifteen  years  of 
trouble. 

"Landladies,"  she  soliloquised,  "it's  worse.  You  take 
my  tip,  Vic,  you  steer  clear  of  them.  You  pay  as  much 
for  a  pigsty  as  a  man  pays  for  a  palace.  If  you  do  badly 
they  chuck  you  out  and  stick  to  your  traps  and  what  can 
you  do?  You  don't  call  a  policeman.  If  you  do,  well, 
they  raise  the  rent,  steal  your  clothes,  charge  you  key 
money,  and  don't  give  'em  any  lip  if  you  don't  want  a 
man  set  at  you.  Oh,  Lor!" 

Duckie  went  on,  and  as  she  spoke  her  bluntness  caused 
Victoria  to  visualise  scene  after  scene,  one  more  horrible 
than  another:  a  tall,  dingy  house  in  Bloomsbury  with 
unlit  staircases  leading  up  to  black  landings  suggestive  of 
robbery  and  murder;  bedrooms  with  blinded  windows, 
reeking  with  patchouli,  with  carpets  soiled  by  a  myriad 
ignoble  stains.  The  house  Duckie  pictured  was  like  a 
warren  in  every  corner  of  which  soft-handed,  rosy-lipped 
harpies  sucked  men's  life-blood;  there  was  drinking  in  it, 
and  a  piano  played  light  airs;  below  in  the  ground  floor, 
through  the  half-open  door,  she  could  see  two  or  three  for- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  263 

eigners,  unshaven,  dirty-cuffed,  playing  cards  in  silence 
like  hunters  in  ambush.  She  shuddered. 

"Yes,  but  Fritz  isn't  so  bad,"  broke  in  Lissa.  She  had 
all  this  time  been  wrangling  with  Zoe. 

"No  good,"  snapped  Zoe,  "he's  a  ...  a  bouche  inu- 
tile." Her  pursed-up  lips  tightened.  Fritz  was  swept 
away  to  limbo  by  her  practical  French  philosophy. 

"I  like  him  because  he  is  not  useful,"  said  Lissa  dream- 
ily. Zoe  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Poor  fool,  this  Lissa. 

"Who  is  this  Fritz  you're  always  talking  about?"  asked 
Victoria. 

"He's  a  ...  you  know  what  they  call  them,"  said 
Duckie  brutally. 

"You're  a  liar,"  screamed  Lissa,  jumping  up.  "He's 
...  oh,  Vic,  you  do  not  understand.  He's  the  man  I 
care  for;  he  is  so  handsome,  so  clever,  so  gentle  ..." 

"Very  gentle,"  sneered  Zoe,  "why  did  you  not  take  off 
your  long  gloves  last  week,  hein?  Perhaps  you  had  blue 
marks?" 

Lissa  looked  about  to  cry.  Victoria  put  her  hand  on 
her  arm. 

"Never  mird  them,"  she  said,  "tell  me." 

"Oh,  Vic,  you  are  so  good."  Lissa's  face  twitched,  then 
she  smiled  like  a  child  bribed  with  a  sweet.  "They  do  not 
know;  they  are  hard.  It  is  true,  Fritz  does  not  work,  but 
if  we  were  married  he  would  work  and  I  would  do  noth- 
ing. What  does  it  matter?"  They  all  smiled  at  the 
theory,  but  Lissa  went  on  with  heightened  colour: 

"Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  forget  all  the  others;  they  are  so 
ugly,  so  stupid.  It  is  infernal.  And  then,  Fritz,  the  man 
that  I  love  for  himself  .  .  ." 

"And  who  loves  you  for  .  .  ."  began  Zoe. 

"Shut  up,  Zoe,"  said  Duckie,  her  kindly  heart  expand- 
ing before  this  idealism,  "leave  the  kid  alone.  Not  in 
my  line,  of  course.  You  take  my  tip,  all  of  you,  you  go 
on  your  own.  Don't  you  get  let  in  with  a  landlady  and 
don't  you  get  let  in  with  a  man.  It's  them  you've  got  to 
let  in." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  remarked  Zoe.  "We  are  success- 
ful because  we  take  care.  One  must  be  economical.  For 


264  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

instance,  every  month  I  can  ..."  She  stopped  and 
looked  round  suspiciously;  with  economy  goes  distrust, 
and  Zoe  was  very  French.  "Well,  I  can  manage,"  she 
concluded  vaguely. 

"And  you  need  not  talk,  Duckie,"  said  Lissa  savagely. 
"You  drink  two  quids'  worth  every  week." 

"Well,  s'pose  I  do,"  grumbled  the  cherub.  "Think  I 
do  it  for  pleasure?  Tell  you  what,  if  I  hadn't  got  squiffy 
at  the  beginning  I'd  have  gone  off  me  bloomin'  chump.  I 
was  in  Buenos  Ayres,  went  off  with  a  waiter  to  get  mar- 
ried. He  was  in  a  restaurant,  Highgate  way,  where  I  was 
in  service.  I  found  out  all  about  it  when  I  got  there.  0 
Lor!  Why,  we  jolly  well  had  to  drink,  what  with  those 
Argentines  who're  half  monkeys  and  the  good  of  the 
house!  Oh,  Lor!"  She  smiled.  "Those  were  high  old 
times,"  she  said  inconsequently,  overwhelmed  by  the 
glamour  of  the  past.  There  was  silence. 

"I  see,"  said  Victoria  suddenly.  "I've  never  seen  it 
before.  If  you  want  to  get  on,  you've  got  to  run  on  busi- 
ness lines.  No  ties,  no  men  to  bleed  you.  Save  your 
money.  Don't  drink;  save  your  looks.  Why,  those  are 
good  rules  for  a  bank  cashier!  If  you  trip,  down  you  go 
in  the  mud  and  nobody '11  pick  you  up.  So  you've  got  to 
walk  warily,  not  look  at  anybody,  play  fair  and  play  hard. 
Then  you  can  get  some  cash  together  and  then  you're 
free."  ' 

There  was  silence.  Victoria  had  faced  the  problem  too 
squarely  for  two  of  her  guests.  Lissa  looked  dreamily 
towards  the  garden,  wondering  where  Fritz  was,  whether 
she  was  wise  in  loving;  Duckie,  conscious  of  her  heavy 
legs  and  incipient  dropsy,  blushed,  then  paled.  Alone, 
Zoe,  stiff  and  energetic  like  the  determined  business 
woman  she  was,  wore  on  her  lips  the  enigmatic  smile  born 
of  a  nice  little  sum  in  French  three  per  cents. 

"I  must  be  going,"  said  Duckie  hoarsely.  She  levered 
herself  off  the  sofa.  Then,  almost  silently,  the  party  broke 
up. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  265 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LIFE  pursued  its  even  tenor;  and  Victoria,  watching  it 
go  by,  was  reminded  of  the  endless  belt  of  a  machine. 
The  world  machine  went  on  grinding,  and  every  breath 
she  took  was  grist  thrown  for  ever  into  the  intolerable 
mill.  It  was  October  again,  and  already  the  trees  in  the 
garden  were  shedding  fitful  rains  of  glowing  leaves.  Alone 
the  elder  tree  stood  almost  unchanged,  a  symbol  of  the 
everlasting.  Now  and  then  Victoria  walked  round  the 
little  lawn  with  Snoo  and  Poo,  who  were  too  shivery  to 
chase  the  fat  spiders.  Often  she  stayed  there  for  an  hour, 
one  hand  against  a  tree  trunk,  looking  at  nothing,  bathed 
in  the  mauve  light  of  the  dying  year.  Already  the  scents 
of  decay,  of  wetness,  filled  the  little  garden  and  struck 
cold  when  the  sun  went  down. 

Every  day  now  Victoria  felt  her  isolation  more  cruelly. 
Solitude  was  no  longer  negative;  it  had  materialised  and 
had  become  a  solid  inimical  presence.  When  the  sun 
shone  and  she  could  walk  the  milky  way  of  the  streets, 
alone  but  feeling  with  every  sense  the  joy  of  living,  there 
was  not  much  to  fear  from  solitude;  there  were  things  to 
look  at,  to  touch,  to  smell.  Now  solitude  no  longer  lurked 
round  corners;  at  times  a  gust  of  wind  carried  its  icy 
breath  into  her  bones. 

She  was  suffering,  too,  a  little.  She  felt  heavy  in  the 
legs,  and  a  vein  in  her  left  calf  hurt  a  little  in  the  evening 
if  she  had  walked  or  stood  much.  Soon,  though  it  did  not 
increase,  the  pain  became  her  daily  companion,  for  even 
when  absent  it  haunted  her.  She  would  await  a  twinge 
for  a  whole  day,  ready  and  fearful,  bracing  herself  up 
against  a  shock  which  often  found  her  unprepared.  At 
all  times,  too,  the  obsession  seemed  to  follow  her  now. 
Perhaps  she  was  walking  through  Regent's  Park,  buoyant 
and  feeling  capable  of  lifting  a  mountain,  but  the  thought 
would  rush  upon  her,  perhaps  it  was  going  to  hurt.  She 
would  lie  awake,  too,  oblivious  of  the  heavy  breathing  by 
her  side,  rested,  all  her  senses  asleep,  and  then  though  she 
felt  no  pain  the  fear  of  it  would  come  upon  her  and  she 


266  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

would  wrestle  with  the  thought  that  the  blow  was  about  to 
fall. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  out  into  the  streets,  seeking 
variety  even  in  a  wrangle  between  her  Pekingese  and  some 
other  dog.  This  meant  that  she  must  separate  them,  apol- 
ogise to  the  owner,  exchange  perhaps  a  few  words.  Once 
she  achieved  a  conversation  with  an  old  lady,  a  kindly 
soul,  the  mistress  of  a  poodle.  They  walked  together 
along  the  Canal,  and  the  futile  conversation  fell  like  balm 
on  Victoria's  ears.  The  freshness  of  a  voice  ignorant  of 
double  meanings  was  soft  as  dew.  They  were  to  meet 
again,  but  the  old  lady  was  a  near  neighbour  and  she  must 
have  heard  something  of  Victoria's  reputation,  for  when 
they  met  again  opposite  Lord's,  the  old  lady  crossed  over 
and  the  poodle  followed  her  haughtily,  leaving  Snoo  and 
Poo  disconsolate  and  wondering  on  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment. 

One  morning  Augusta  came  into  the  boudoir  about 
twelve,  carrying  a  visiting  card  on  a  little  tray. 

"Miss  Emma  Welkin,"  read  Victoria.  "League  of  the 
Rights  of  Women.  What  does  she  want,  Augusta?" 

"She  says  she  wants  to  see  Mrs.  Ferris,  Mum." 

"League  of  the  Rights  of  Women?  Why,  she  must  be 
a  suffragist." 

"Yes,  Mum.  She  wears  a  straw  hat,  Mum,"  explained 
Augusta  with  a  slight  sniff. 

"And  a  tweed  coat  and  skirt,  I  suppose,"  said  Victoria, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mum.    Shall  I  say  go  away?" 

"M'm.    No,  tell  her  to  come  in." 

While  Augusta  was  away  Victoria  settled  herself  in  the 
cushions.  Perhaps  it  might  be  interesting.  The  visitor 
was  shown  in. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Victoria,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"Please  sit  down.  Excuse  my  getting  up^  I'm  not  very 
well." 

Miss  Welkin  looked  about  her,  mildly  surprised.  It 
was  a  pretty  room,  but  somehow  she  felt  uncomfortable. 
Victoria  was  looking  at  her.  A  capable  type  of  femininity 
this;  curious,  though,  in  its  thick,  man-like  clothes,  its 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  267 

strong  boots.  She  was,  not  bad  looking,  thirty  perhaps, 
very  erect  and  rather  flat.  Her  face  was  fresh,  clean,  in- 
nocent of  powder;  her  eyes  were  steady  behind  glasses; 
her  hair  was  mostly  invisible,  being  tightly  pulled  back. 
There  were  firm  lines  about  her  mouth.  A  fighting  ani- 
mal. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  this  intrusion,"  said  the  suffra- 
gist, "but  I  got  your  name  from  the  directory  and  I  have 
come  to  ...  to  ascertain  your  views  about  the  all-im- 
portant question  of  the  vote."  There  was  a  queer  stilted- 
ness  about  the  little  speech.  Miss  Welkin  was  addressing 
the  meeting. 

"Oh?  I'm  very  much  interested,"  said  Victoria.  "Of 
course,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it  except  what  I  read 
in  the  papers. 

The  grey  eyes  glittered.  Evangelic  fervour  radiated 
from  them.  "That's  what  we  want,"  said  the  suffragist. 
"It's  just  the  people  who  are  ready  to  be  our  friends  who 
haven't  heard  our  side  and  who  get  biassed.  Mrs.  Ferris, 
I'm  sure  you'll  come  in  with  us  and  join  the  Marylebone 
branch?" 

"But  how  can  I?"  asked  Victoria.  "You  see  I  know 
nothing  about  it  all." 

"Let  me  give  you  these  pamphlets,"  said  the  suffragist. 
Victoria  obediently  took  a  leaflet  on  the  marriage  law,  a 
pamphlet  on  "The  Rights  of  Women,"  a  few  more  papers, 
too,  some  of  which  slipped  to  the  floor. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "but  first  of  all  tell  me,  why 
do  you  want  the  vote?" 

The  suffragist  looked  at  her  for  a  second.  This  might 
be  a  keen  recruit  when  she  was  converted.  Then  a  flood 
of  words  burst  from  her. 

"Oh,  how  can  any  woman  ask,  when  she  sees  the  misery, 
the  subjection  in  which  we  live?  We  say  that  we  want 
the  vote  because  it  is  the  only  means  we  have  to  attain 
economic  freedom  ...  we  say  to  man:  Tut  your  weapon 
in  our  hands  and  we  will  show  you  what  we  can  do.' 
We  want  to  have  a  voice  in  the  affairs  of  the  country. 
We  want  to  say  how  the  taxes  we  pay  shall  be  spent,  how 
our  children  shall  be  educated,  whether  our  sons  shall  go 


268  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  war.  We  say  it's  wrong  that  we  should  be  disfran- 
chised because  we  are  women  ...  it  is  illogical  ...  we 
must  have  it." 

The  suffragist  stopped  for  a  second  to  regain  breath. 

"I  see,"  said  Victoria,  "but  how  is  the  vote  going  to 
help?" 

"Help?"  echoed  Miss  Welkin.  "It  will  help  because  it 
will  enable  women  to  have  a  voice  in  national  affairs." 

"You  must  think  me  awfully  stupid,"  said  Victoria 
sweetly,  "but  what  use  will  it  be  to  us  if  we  do  get  a  voice 
in  national  affairs?" 

Miss  Welkin  ignored  the  interruption. 

"It  is  wrong  that  we  should  not  have  a  vote  if  we  are 
reasonable  beings;  we  can  be  teachers,  doctors,  chemists, 
factory  inspectors,  business  managers,  writers;  we  can  sit 
on  local  authorities,  and  we  can't  cast  a  vote  for  a  mem- 
ber of  Parliament.  It's  preposterous,  it's  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  understand,  but  what  will  the  vote  do  for  us? 
Will  it  raise  wages?" 

"It  must  raise  wages.  Men's  wages  have  risen  a  lot 
since  they  got  the  vote." 

"Do  you  think  that's  because  they  got  the  vote?" 

"Yes.  Well,  partly.  At  any  rate  there  are  things 
above  wages,"  said  the  suffragist  excitedly.  "And  you 
know,  we  know  that  the  vote  is  wanted  especially  because 
it  is  an  education ;  by  inducing  women  to  take  an  interest 
in  politics  we  will  broaden  their  minds,  teach  them  to  com- 
bine and  then  automatically  their  wages  will  rise." 

"Oh,  yes."  Victoria  was  rather  struck  by  the  argu- 
ment. "Then,"  she  said,  "you  admit  men  are  superior 
to  women?" 

"Well,  yes,  at  any  rate,  at  present,"  said  the  suffragist 
rather  sulkily.  "But  you  must  remember  that  men  have 
nearly  eighty  years'  training  in  political  affairs.  That's 
why  we  want  the  vote;  to  wake  women  up.  Oh,  you  have 
no  idea  what  it  will  mean  when  we  get  it.  We  shall  have 
fresh  minds  bearing  on  political  problems,  we  shall  have 
more  adequate  protection  for  women  and  children,  com- 
pulsory feeding,  endowment  of  mothers,  more  education. 
shorter  hours,  more  sanitary  inspection.  We  shall  not  be 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  269 

enslaved  by  parties;  a  nobler  influence,  the  influence  of 
pure  women  will  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  virtue  into  this 
terrible  world." 

The  woman's  eyes  were  wrapt  now,  her  hands  tightly 
clenched,  her  lips  parted,  her  cheeks  a  little  flushed.  But 
Victoria's  face  had  hardened  suddenly. 

"Miss  Welkin,"  she  said  quietly,  "has  anything  struck 
you  about  this  house,  about  me?" 

The  suffragist  looked  at  her  uneasily. 

"You  ought  to  know  whom  you  are  talking  to,"  Vic- 
toria went  on,  "I  am  a  ...  I  am  a  what  you  would 
probably  call  .  .  .  well,  not  respectable." 

A  dull  red  flush  spread  over  Miss  Welkin's  face,  from 
the  line  of  her  tightly  pulled  hair  to  her  stiff  white  collar; 
even  her  ears  went  red.  She  looked  away  into  a  corner. 

"You  see,"  said  Victoria,  "it's  a  shock,  isn't  it?  I  ought 
not  to  have  let  you  in.  It  wasn't  quite  fair,  was  it?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,  Mrs.  Ferris,"  burst  out  the  suffragist, 
"I'm  not  thinking  of  myself.  .  .  ." 

"Excuse  me,  you  must.  You  can't  help  it.  If  you 
could  construct  a  scale  with  the  maximum  of  egotism  at 
one  end,  and  the  maximum  of  altruism  at  the  other  and 
divide  it,  say  into  one  hundred  degrees,  you  would  not,  I 
think,  place  your  noblest  thinkers  more  than  a  degree  or 
two  beyond  the  egotistic  zero.  Now  you,  a  pure  girl, 
have  been  entrapped  into  the  house  of  a  woman  of  no 
reputation,  whom  you  would  not  have  in  your  drawing- 
room.  Now,  would  you?" 

Miss  Welkin  was  silent  for  a  moment;  the  flush  was 
dying  away  as  she  gazed  round-eyed  at  this  beautiful 
woman  lying  in  her  piled  cushions,  talking  like  a  mathe- 
matician. 

"I  haven't  come  here  to  ask  you  into  my  drawing- 
room,"  she  answered.  "I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  throw 
in  your  labour,  your  time,  your  money,  with  ours  in  the 
service  of  our  cause."  She  held  her  head  higher  as  the 
thought  rose  in  her  like  wine.  "Our  cause,"  she  contin- 
ued, "is  not  the  cause  of  rich  women  or  poor  women,  of 
good  women  or  bad;  it's  the  cause  of  woman.  Thus,  it 


270  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

doesn't  matter  who  she  is,  so  long  as  there  is  a  woman 
who  stands  aloof  from  us  there  is  still  work  to  do." 

Victoria  looked  at  her  interestedly.  Her  eyes  were 
shining,  her  lips  parted  in  ecstasy. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  think,"  the  suffragist  went  on; 
"as  you  say,  you  think  I  despise  you  because  you  .  .  . 
you  .  .  ."  The  flush  returned  slightly.  .  .  .  "But  I  know 
that  yours  is  not  a  happy  life  and  we  are  bringing  the 
light." 

"The  light!"  echoed  Victoria  bitterly.  "You  have  no 
idea,  I  see,  of  how  many  people  there  are  who  are  bring- 
ing the  light  to  women  like  me.  There  are  various  re- 
ligious organisations  who  wish  to  rescue  us  and  to  house 
us  comfortably  under  the  patronage  of  the  police,  to  keep 
us  nicely  and  feed  us  on  what  is  suitable  for  the  fallen; 
they  expect  us  to  sew  ten  hours  a  day  for  these  privileges, 
but  that  is  by  the  way.  There  are  also  many  kindly  souls 
who  offer  little  jobs  as  charwomen  to  those  of  us  who  are 
too  worn  out  to  pursue  our  calling;  we  are  offered  emi- 
gration as  servants  in  exchange  for  the  power  of  com- 
manding a  household;  we  are  offered  poverty  for  luxury, 
service  for  domination,  slavery  to  women  instead  of  slavery 
to  men.  How  tempting  it  is!  And  now  here  is  the  light 
in  another  form:  the  right  to  drop  a  bit  of  paper  into  a 
box  every  four  years  or  so  and  settle  thereby  whether  the 
Home  Secretary  who  administers  the  law  of  my  trade  shall 
live  in  fear  of  bluff  prejudice  or  blue." 

The  suffragist  said  nothing  for  a  second.  She  felt 
shaken  by  Victoria's  bitterness. 

"Women  will  have  no  party,"  she  said  lamely,  "they 
will  vote  as  women." 

"Oh?  I  have  heard  somewhere  that  the  danger  of  giv- 
ing women  the  vote  is  that  they  will  vote  solid  'as 
women,'  as  you  say  and  swamp  the  men.  Is  that  so?" 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  the  suffragist  unguardedly, 
"of  course  women  will  split  up  into  political  parties." 

"Indeed?  Then  where  is  this  woman  vote  which  is 
going  to  remould  the  world?  It  is  swamped  in  the  ordi- 
nary parties." 

The  suffragist  was  in  a  dilemma. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  271 

"You  forget,"  she  answered,  wriggling  on  the  horns, 
"that  women  can  always  be  aroused  for  a  noble 
cause.  ..." 

"Am  I  a  noble  cause?"  asked  Victoria,  smiling.  "So 
far  as  I  can  see  women,  even  the  highest  of  them  despise 
us  because  we  do  illegally  what  they  do  legally,  hate  us 
because  we  attract,  envy  us  because  we  shine.  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  Christ  had  said,  'Let  her  who  hath 
never  sinned  .  .  .'  the  woman  would  have  been  stoned. 
What  do  you  think?" 

The  suffragist  hesitated,  cleared  her  throat. 

"That  will  all  go  when  we  have  the  vote,  women  will 
be  a  force,  a  nobler  force;  they  will  realise  .  .  .  they  will 
sympathise  more  .  .  .  then  they  will  cast  their  vote  for 
women." 

Victoria  shook  her  head. 

"Miss  Welkin,"  she  said,  "you  are  an  idealist.  Now, 
will  you  ask  me  to  your  next  meeting  if  you  are  satisfied 
as  to  my  views,  announce  me  for  what  I  am  and  introduce 
me  to  your  committee?" 

"I  don't  see  ...  I  don't  think,"  stammered  the  suf- 
fragist, "you  see  some  of  our  committee  .  .  ." 

Victoria  laughed. 

"You  see.  Never  mind.  I  assure  you  I  wouldn't  go. 
But,  tell  me,  supposing  women  get  the  vote,  most  of  my 
class  will  be  disfranchised  on  the  present  registration  law. 
What  will  you  women  do  for  us?" 

The  suffragist  thought  for  a  minute. 

"We  shall  raise  the  condition  of  women,"  she  said. 
"We  shall  give  them  a  new  status,  increase  the  respect  of 
men  for  them,  increase  their  respect  for  themselves;  be- 
sides, it  will  raise  wages  and  that  will  help.  We  shall  .  .  . 
we  shall  have  better  means  of  reform,  too." 

"What  means?" 

"When  women  have  more  sympathy." 

"Votes  don't  mean  sympathy." 

"Well,  intelligence  then.  Oh,  Mrs.  Ferris,  it's  not  that 
that  matters;  we're  going  to  the  root  of  it.  We're  going 
to  make  women  equal  to  men,  give  them  the  same  oppor- 
tunities, the  same  rights.  ..." 


272  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Yes,  but  will  the  vote  increase  their  muscles?  Will  it 
make  them  more  logical,  fitter  to  earn  their  living?" 

"Of  course  it  will,"  said  Miss  Welkin  acidly. 

"Then  how  do  you  explain  that  several  millions  of  men 
earn  less  than  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  that  at  times 
hundreds  of  thousands  are  unemployed?" 

"The  vote  does  not  mean  everything,"  said  the  suffra- 
gist reluctantly.  "It  will  merely  ensure  that  we  rise  like 
the  men  when  we  are  fit." 

"Well,  Miss  Welkin,  I  won't  press  that,  but  now,  tell 
me,  if  women  got  the  vote  to-morrow,  what  would  it  do 
for  my  class?" 

"It  would  raise  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,  we  can't  wait  to  be  raised.  We've  got  to 
live,  and  if  you  'raise'  us  we  lose  our  means  of  livelihood. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  to  the  root  cause  and  lift  us, 
not  the  next  generation,  at  once  out  of  the  lower  depths?" 

The  suffragist's  face  contracted. 

"Everything  takes  time,"  she  faltered.  "Just  as  I 
couldn't  promise  a  charwoman  that  her  hours  would  go 
down  and  her  wages  up  next  day,  I  can't  say  that  .  .  . 
of  course  your  case  is  more  difficult  than  any  other,  be- 
cause .  .  .  because  ..." 

"Because,"  said  Victoria  coldly,  "I  represent  a  social 
necessity.  So  long  as  your  economic  system  is  such  that 
there  is  not  work  for  the  asking  for  every  human  being — 
work,  mark  you,  fitted  to  strength  and  ability — so  long, 
on  the  other  hand,  as  there  is  such  uncertainty  as  prevents 
men  from  marrying,  so  long  as  there  is  a  leisured  class  who 
draw  luxury  from  the  labour  of  other  men;  so  long  will 
my  class  endure  as  it  endured  in  Athens,  in  Rome,  in 
Alexandria,  as  it  does  now  from  St.  John's  Wood  to 
Pekin." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Miss  Welkin  got  up  awk- 
wardly. Victoria  followed  suit. 

"There,"  she  said,  "you  don't  mind  my  being  frank,  do 
you?  May  I 'subscribe  this  sovereign  to  the  funds  of  the 
branch?  I  do  believe  you  are  right,  you  know,  even 
though  I'm  not  sure  the  millenium  is  coming." 

Miss  Welkin  looked  doubtfully  at  the  coin  in  her  palm. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  273 

"Don't  refuse  it,"  said  Victoria,  smiling;  "after  all,  you 
know,  in  politics  there  is  no  tainted  money." 

CHAPTER  XIV 

VICTORIA  lay  back  in  bed,  gazing  at  the  blue  silk  wall. 
It  was  ten  o'clock,  but  still  dark;  not  a  sound  disturbed 
dominical  peace,  except  the  rain  dripping  from  the  trees, 
falling  finally  like  the  strokes  of  time.  Her  eyes  dwelt 
for  a  moment  on  the  colour  prints  where  the  nude  beauties 
languished.  She  felt  desperately  tired,  though  she  had 
not  left  the  house  for  thirty-six  hours;  her  weariness  was 
as  much  a  consequence  as  a  cause  of  her  consciousness  of 
defeat.  October  was  wearing;  and  soon  the  cruel  winter 
would  come  and  fix  its  fangs  into  the  sole  remaining  joy 
of  her  life,  the  spectacle  of  life  itself.  She  was  desperately 
tired,  full  of  hatred  and  disgust.  If  the  face  of  a  man 
rose  before  her  she  thrust  it  back  savagely  into  limbo; 
her  legs  hurt.  The  time  had  come  when  she  must  realise 
her  failure.  She  was  not,  as  once  in  the  P.R.R.,  in  the 
last  stage  of  exhaustion,  hunted,  tortured;  she  was  rather 
the  wounded  bird  crawling  away  to  die  in  a  thicket  than 
the  brute  at  bay. 

As  she  lay,  she  realised  that  her  failure  had  two  aspects. 
It  was  together  a  monetary  and  a  physical  failure.  The 
last  three  months  had  in  themselves  been  easy.  Her 
working  hours  did  not  begin  before  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening;  and  it  was  open  to  her,  being  young  and  beauti- 
ful, to  put  them  off  for  two  or  three  hours  more;  she  was 
always  free  by  twelve  o'clock  in  the  morning  at  the  very 
latest,  and  then  the  day  was  hers  to  rest,  to  read  and 
think.  But  she  was  still  too  much  of  a  novice  to  escape 
the  excitement  inherent  in  the  chase,  the  strain  of  making 
conversation,  of  facing  the  inane;  nor  was  she  able  with- 
out a  mental  effort  to  bring  herself  to  the  response  of 
the  simulator.  As  she  sat  in  the  Vesuvius  or  stared  into 
the  showcase  of  a  Regent  Street  jeweller,  a  faint  smile 
upon  her  face,  her  brain  was  awake,  her  faculties  at  high 
pressure.  Her  eyes  roved  right  and  left  and  every  nerve 
seemed  to  dance  with  expectation  or  disappointment. 


274  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

When  she  got  up  now,  she  found  her  body  heavy,  her 
legs  sore  and  all  her  being  dull  like  a  worn  stone.  A 
little  more,  she  felt,  and  the  degradation  of  her  body 
would  spread  to  her  sweet  lucidity  of  mind;  she  would 
no  longer  see  ultimate  ends  but  would  be  engulfed  in  the 
present,  become  a  bird  of  prey  seeking  hungrily  pleasure 
or  excitement. 

Besides,  and  this  seemed  more  serious  still,  she  was  not 
doing  well.  It  seemed  more  serious  because  this  could 
not  be  fought  as  could  be  intellectual  brutalisation.  An 
examination  of  her  pass  books  showed  that  she  was  a  little 
better  off  than  at  the  time  of  Cairns's  death.  She  was 
worth,  all  debts  paid,  about  three  hundred  and  ninety 
pounds.  Her  net  savings  were  therefore  at  the  rate  of 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year;  but  she  had  been  won- 
derfully lucky,  and  nothing  said  that  age,  illness  or  such 
misadventures  as  she  classed  under  professional  risk, 
might  not  nullify  her  efforts  in  a  week.  There  was  wear 
and  tear  of  clothes,  too:  the  trousseau  presented  her  by 
Cairns  had  been  good  throughout  but  some  of  the  linen 
was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  wear;  boots  and  shoes 
wanted  renewing;  there  were  winter  garments  to  buy  and 
new  furs. 

"I  shall  have  stone  martin,"  she  reflected.  Then  her 
mind  ran  complacently  for  a  while  on  a  picture  of  her- 
self in  stone  martin;  a  pity  she  couldn't  run  to  sables. 
She  brought  herself  back  with  a  jerk  to  her  consideration 
of  ways  and  means.  The  situation  was  really  not  brilliant. 
Of  course  she  was  extravagant  in  a  way.  Eighty-five 
pounds  rent;  thirty  pounds  in  rates  and  taxes,  without 
counting  income  tax  which  might  be  anything,  for  she 
dared  not  protest;  two  servants — all  that  was  too  much. 
It  was  quite  impossible  to  run  the  house  under  five  hun- 
dred a  year,  and  clothes  must  run  into  an  extra  hundred. 

"I  could  give  it  up,"  she  thought.  But  the  idea  dis- 
appeared at  once.  A  flat  would  be  cheaper,  but  it  meant 
unending  difficulties;  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  Zoe, 
Lissa  and  Duckie  envied  her.  And  the  rose-covered  per- 
gola! Besides,  it  would  mean  saving  a  hundred  a  year 
or  so;  and,  from  her  point  of  view,  even  two  hundred  and 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  275 

fifty  a  year  was  not  worth  saving.  She  was  nearly  twenty- 
eight,  and  could  count  on  no  more  than  between  eight  and 
twelve  years  of  great  attractiveness.  This  meant  that, 
with  the  best  of  luck,  she  could  not  hope  to  amass  much 
more  than  three  thousand  pounds.  And  then?  Weston- 
super-Mare  and  thirty  years  in  a  boarding-house? 

She  was  still  full  of  hesitation  and  doubt  as  she  greeted 
Betty  at  lunch.  This  was  a  great  Sunday  treat  for  the 
gentle  P.R.R.  girl.  When  she  had  taken  off  her  coat  and 
hat,  she  used  to  settle  in  an  armchair  with  an  intimate 
feeling  of  peace  and  protection.  This  particular  day 
Betty  did  not  settle  down  as  usual,  though  the  cushions 
looked  soft  and  tempting  and  a  clear  fire  burned  in  the 
grate.  Victoria  watched  her  for  a  moment.  How  ex- 
quisite and  delicate  this  girl  looked;  tall,  very  slim  and 
rounded.  Betty  had  placed  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece, 
a  small,  long  hand,  rather  coarsened  at  the  finger  tips, 
one  foot  on  the  fender.  It  was  a  little  foot,  arched  and 
neat  in  the  cheap  boot.  She  had  bought  new  boots  for 
the  occasion ;  the  middle  of  the  raised  sole  was  still  white. 
Her  face  was  a  little  flushed,  her  eyes'  darkened  by  the 
glow. 

"Well,  Betty,"  said  her  hostess  suddenly,  "when's  the 
wedding?" 

"Oh,  Vic,  I  didn't  say  .  .  .  how  can  you  .  .  ."  Her 
face  had  blushed  a  tell-tale  red. 

"You  didn't  say,"  laughed  Victoria,  "of  course  you 
didn't  say,  shy  bird!  But  surely  you  don't  think  I  don't 
know.  ,  You've  met  somebody  in  the  city  and  you're 
frightfully  in  love  with  him.  Now,  honest,  is  there  any- 
body?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  there  is,  but  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  there  is.    Now,  Betty,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  said  Betty,  gazing  into  the  fire.  "You 
see,  it  isn't  quite  settled  yet." 

"Then  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  settle.  First  of 
all,  who  is  it?" 

"Nobody  you  know.  I  met  him  at  ...  well,  he  fol- 
lowed me  in  Finsbury  Circus  one  evening.  ..." 

"Oh,  naughty,  naughty!     You're  getting  on,  Betty.'* 


276  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"You  mustn't  think  I  encouraged  him,"  said  Betty  with 
a  tinge  of  asperity.  "I'm  not  that  sort."  She  stopped, 
remembering  Victoria's  profession,  then,  inconsequently: 
"You  see,  he  wouldn't  go  away  and  .  .  .  now  ..." 

"And  he  was  rather  nice,  wasn't  he?" 

"Well,  rather."  A  faint  and  very  sweet  smile  came  over 
Betty's  face.  Victoria  felt  a  little  strangle  in  her  throat. 
She,  too,  had  thought  her  bold  partner  at  the  regimental 
dance  at  Lympton  rather  nice.  Poor  old  Dick. 

"Then  he  got  out  of  me  about  the  P.R.R.,"  Betty  went 
on  more  confidently.  "And  then,  would  you  believe  it, 
he  came  to  lunch  every  day!  Not  that  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  lunch  at  places  like  that,"  she  added  complac- 
ently. 

"Oh,  a  swell?"  said  Victoria. 

"No,  I  don't  say  that.  He  used  to  go  to  the  Lethes, 
before  they  shut  up.  He  lives  in  the  West  End,  too,  in 
Netting  Hill,  you  know." 

"Dear,  dear,  you're  flying  high,  Betty.  But  tell  me, 
what  is  he  like?  and  what  does  he  do?  and  is  he  very 
handsome?" 

"Oh,  he's  awfully  handsome,  Vic.  Tall,  you  know,  and 
very,  very  dark;  he's  so  gentlemanly,  too,  looks  like  the 
young  man  in  First  Words  of  Love.  It's  a  lovely  picture, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  lovely,"  said  Victoria  summarily.  "But  tell  me 
more  about  him." 

"He's  twenty-eight.  He  works  in  the  city.  He's  a 
ledger  clerk  at  Anderson  and  Dromo's.  If  he  gets  a  rise 
this  Christmas,  he  ...  well,  he  says  .  .  ." 

"He  says  he'll  marry  you.7' 

"Yes."  Betty  hung  her  head,  then  raised  it  quickly. 
"Oh,  Vic,  I  can't  believe  it.  It's  too  good  to  be  true.  I 
love  him  so  dreadfully  ...  I  just  can't  wait  for  one 
o'clock.  He  didn't  come  on  Wednesday.  I  thought  he'd 
forgotten  me  and  I  was  going  off  my  head.  But  it  was 
all  right,  they'd  kept  him  in  over  something." 

"Poor  little  girl,"  said  Victoria  gently.  "It's  hard,  isn't 
it,  but  good,  too." 

"Good!     Vic,  when  he  kisses  me  I  feel  as  if  I  were 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  277 

going  to  faint.  He's  strong,  you  see.  And  when  he  puts 
his  arms  round  me  I  feel  like  a  mouse  in  a  trap  .  .  .  but 
I  don't  want  to  get  away:  I  want  it  to  go  on  for  ever,  just 
like  that." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  listening  to  the  first 
words  of  love.  Then  her  mind  took  a  practical  turn. 

"Of  course  we  sha'n't  be  able  to  live  in  Notting  Hill," 
she  added.  "We'll  have  to  go  further  out,  Shepherd's 
Bush  way,  so  as  to  be  on  the  Tube.  And  he  says  I  sha'n't 
go  to  the  P.R.R.  any  more." 

"Happy  girl,"  said  Victoria.  "I'm  so  glad,  Betty;  I 
hope  .  .  ." 

She  restrained  a  doubt.  "And  as  you  say  you  can't 
stay  to  tea  I  think  I  know  where  you're  going." 

"Well,  yes,  I  am  going  to  meet  him,"  said  Betty,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  you're  going  to  look  at  little  houses  at 
Shepherd's  Bush." 

Betty  looked  up  dreamily.  She  could  see  a  two-stor- 
eyed house  in  a  row,  with  a  bay  window,  and  a  front  gar- 
den where,  winter  and  summer,  marigolds  grew. 

After  lunch,  as  the  two  women  sat  once  more  in  the 
boudoir,  they  said  very  little.  Victoria,  from  time  to  time, 
flicked  the  ash  from  her  cigarette.  Betty  did  not  smoke, 
but,  V>er  hands  clasped  together  in  her  lap,  watched  a 
handsome  dark  face  in  the  coals. 

"And  how  are  you  getting  on,  Vic?"  she  asked  sud- 
denly. Swamped  by  the  impetuous  tide  of  her  own  ro- 
mance, she  had  not  as  yet  shown  any  interest  in  her 
friend's  affairs. 

"I?    Oh,  nothing  special.    Pretty  fair." 

"But,  I  mean  .  .  .  you  said  you  wanted  to  make  a  lot 
of  money  and  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I'm  not  badly  off,  but  I  can't  go  on,  Betty.  I 
shall  never  do  any  good  like  this." 

Betty  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  Her  ingrained 
modesty  made  any  discussion  of  her  friend's  profession 
intolerable.  Vanquished  in  argument,  grudgingly  accept- 
ing the  logic  of  Victoria's  actions,  she  could  not  free  her 


278  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

mind  from  the  thought  that  these  actions  were  repulsive, 
that  there  must  have  been  some  other  way. 

"Oh?  You  want  to  get  out  of  it  all  ...  you  know 
...  I  have  never  said  you  weren't  quite  right,  but  .  .  ." 

"But  I'm  quite  wrong?" 

"No  ...  I  don't  mean  that  ...  I  don't  like  to  say 
that  ...  I'm  not  clever  like  you,  Vic,  but  ..." 

"We've  done  with  all  that,"  said  Victoria  coldly.  "I 
do  want  to  get  out  of  it  because  it's  getting  me  no  nearer 
to  what  I  want.  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  do  it.  I'm 
not  very  well,  you  know." 

Betty  looked  up  quickly  with  concern  in  her  face. 

"Have  those  veins  been  troubling  you  again?" 

"Yes,  a  little.    I  can't  risk  much  more." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Victoria  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  never  thought  of  all  this 
when  the  Major  was  alive." 

"Ah,  there  never  was  anybody  like  him,"  said  Betty 
after  a  pause. 

Victoria  sat  up  suddenly. 

"Betty,"  she  cried,  "you're  giving  me  an  idea." 

"I?    An  idea?" 

"There  must  be  somebody  like  him.  Why  shouldn't  I 
find  him?" 

Betty  said  nothing.  She  looked  her  stiffest,  relishing 
but  little  the  fathering  upon  her  of  this  expedient. 

"But  who?"  soliloquised  Victoria.  "I  don't  know  any- 
body. You  see,  Betty,  I  want  lots  and  lots  of  money. 
Otherwise  it's  no  good.  If  I  don't  make  a  lot  soon  it  will 
be  too  late." 

Betty  still  said  nothing.  Really  she  couldn't  be  ex- 
pected. .  .  .  Then  her  conscience  smote  her;  she  ought 
to  show  a  little  interest  in  dear,  kind  Vic. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  you  must  know  lots  of  people. 
You  never  told  me,  but  you're  a  swell  and  all  that.  You 
must  have  known  lots  of  rich  men  when  you  came  to 
London." 

She  stopped  abruptly,  shocked  by  her  own  audacity. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  279 

But  Victoria  was  no  longer  noticing  her;  she  was  following 
with  lightning  speed  a  new  train  of  thought. 

"Betty,"  she  cried,  "you've  done  it.  I've  found  the 
man." 

"Have  you?  Who  is  it?"  exclaimed  Betty.  She  was 
excited,  unable  in  her  disapproval  of  the  irregular  to  feel 
uninterested  in  the  coming  together  of  women  and  men. 

"Never  mind.  You  don't  know  him.  I'll  tell  you 
later." 

An  extraordinary  buoyancy  seemed  to  pervade  Victoria. 
The  way  out!  she  had  found  the  way  out!  And  the  two 
little  words  echoed  in  her  brain  as  if  some  mighty  wave 
of  sound  was  rebounding  from  side  to  side  in  her  skull. 
She  was  excited,  so  excited  that,  as  she  said  good-bye  to 
Betty,  she  forgot  to  fix  their  next  meeting.  She  had  work 
to  do  and  would  do  it  that  very  night. 

As  soon  as  Betty  was  gone  she  dressed  quickly.  Then 
she  changed  her  hat  to  make  sure  she  was  looking  her 
best.  She  went  out  and,  with  hurried  steps,  made  for  the 
Finchley  Road.  There  was  the  house  with  the  ever- 
greens, as  well  clipped  as  ever,  and  the  drive  with  its 
clean  gravel.  She  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  porch,  then 
hesitated  for  a  moment.  Her  heart  was  beating  now. 
Then  she  rang.  There  was  a  very  long  pause,  during 
which  she  heard  nothing  but  the  pumping  of  her  heart. 
Then  distant,  shuffling  footsteps  coming  nearer.  The 
door  opened.  She  saw  a  slatternly  woman  .  .  .  behind 
her  the  void  of  an  empty  house.  She  could  not  speak  for 
emotion. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  the  house,  mum?"  asked  the 
woman.  She  looked  sour.  Sunday  afternoon  was  hardly 
a  time  to  view. 

"The  house?" 

"Oh  ...  I  thought  you  come  from  Belfrey's,  mum. 
It's  to  let." 

The  caretaker  nodded  towards  the  right  and  Victoria, 
following  the  direction,  saw  the  house  agents'  board.  Her 
excitement  fell  as  under  a  cold  douche. 

"Oh!  I  came  to  see  ...  Do  you  know  where  Mr. 
Holt  is?" 


28o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"Mr.  Holt's  dead,  mum.    Died  in  August,  mum." 

"Dead?"  Things  seemed  to  go  round.  Jack  was  the 
only  son  .  .  .  then? 

"Yes,  mum.  That's  why  they're  letting.  A  fine  big 
'ouse,  mum.  Died  in  August,  mum.  Ah,  you  should  have 
seen  the  funeral.  They  say  he  left  half  a  million,  mum, 
and  there  wasn't  no  will." 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Holt  and  ...  and  Mr.  Holt's  son?" 

The  caretaker  eyed  the  visitor  suspiciously.  There  was 
something  rakish  about  this  young  lady  which  frightened 
her  respectability. 

"I  can't  say,  mum,"  she  answered  slowly.  "I  could 
forward  a  letter,  mum,"  she  added. 

"Let  me  come  in.    I  want  to  write  a  note." 

The  caretaker  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  stood  aside 
to  let  her  pass. 

"You'll  'ave  to  come  downstairs,  mum,"  she  said,  "sorry 
I'm  all  mixed  up.  I  was  doing  a  bit  of  washing.  Git 
away,  Maria,"  to  a  small  child  who  stood  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs. 

In  the  gaslit  kitchen,  surrounded  by  steaming  linen, 
Victoria  wrote  a  little  feverish  note  in  pencil.  The  care- 
taker watched  her  every  movement.  She  liked  her  better 
somehow. 

"I'll  forward  it  all  right,  mum,"  she  said.    "Thank  you, 
mum.  .  .  .  Oh,  mum,  I  don't  want  you  to  think — 
She  was  looking  amazedly  at  the  half  sovereign  in  her 
palm. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Victoria,  laughing  loudly.  She 
felt  she  must  laugh,  dance,  let  herself  go.  "Just  post  it 
before  twelve." 

The  woman  saw  her  to  the  door.  Then  she  looked  at 
the  letter  doubtfully.  It  was  freshly  sealed  and  could 
easily  be  opened.  Then  she  had  a  burst  of  loyalty,  put 
on  a  battered  bonnet,  completed  the  address,  stamped  the 
envelope  and,  walking  to  the  pillar  box  round  the  corner, 
played  Victoria's  trump  card. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  281 


CHAPTER  XV 

"AND  so,  Jack,  you  haven't  forgotten  me?" 

For  a  minute  Holt  did  not  answer.  He  seemed  spell- 
bound by  the  woman  on  the  sofa.  There  she  lay  at  full 
length,  lazy  grace  in  every  curve  of  her  figure,  in  the  lines 
of  her  limbs  revealed  by  the  thin  sea-green  stuff  which 
moulded  them.  This  new  woman  was  a  very  wonderful 
thing. 

"No,"  he  said  at  length,  "but  you  have  changed." 

"Yes?" 

"You're  different.  You  used  to  be  simple,  almost  shy. 
I  used  to  think  you  very  like  a  big  white  lily.  Now  you're 
like — like  a  big  white  orchid — an  orchid  in  a  vase  of 
jade." 

"Poet!  artist!"  laughed  Victoria.  "Ah,  Jack,  you'll 
always  be  the  same.  Always  thinking  me  good  and  the 
world  beautiful." 

"I'll  always  think  you  good  and  beautiful,  too." 

Victoria  looked  at  him.  He  had  hardly  changed  at  all. 
His  tall,  thin  frame  had  not  expanded,  his  hands  were 
still  beautifully  white  and  seemed  as  aristocratic  as  ever. 
Perhaps  his  mouth  appeared  weaker,  his  eyes  bluer,  his 
face  fairer,  owing  to  his  black  clothes. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  she 
said  at  length. 

"Why  did  you  wait  so  long?"  asked  Holt.  "It  was 
cruel,  cruel.  You  know  what  I  said — I  would — 

"No,  no,"  interrupted  Victoria,  fearing  an  avowal.  "I 
couldn't.  I've  been  through  the  mill.  Oh,  Jack,  it  was 
awful.  I've  been  cold,  hungry,  ill;  I've  worked  ten  hours 
a  day — I've  swabbed  floors." 

A  hot  flush  rose  in  Holt's  fair  cheeks. 

"Horrible,"  he  whispered,  "but  why  didn't  you  tell  me? 
I'd  have  helped,  you  know  I  would." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  it  wouldn't  have  done.  No,  Jack, 
it's  no  good  helping  women.  You  can  help  men  a  bit; 
but  women,  no.  You  only  make  them  more  dependent, 
weaker.  If  women  are  the  poor,  frivolous,  ignorant  things 
thev  are,  it's  because  they've  been  protected  or  told  they 


282  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

ought  to  want  to  be  protected.  Besides,  I'm  proud.  I 
wasn't  coming  back  to  you  until  I  was — well,  I'm  not  ex- 
actly rich,  but — 

She  indicated  the  room  with  a  nod  and  Holt,  following 
it,  sank  deeper  into  wonder  at  the  room  where  everything 
spoke  of  culture  and  comfort. 

"But   how ?"   he   stammered   at   last,    "how   did 

you ?    What  happened  then?" 

Victoria  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"Don't  ask  me  just  now,  Jack,"  she  said,  "I'll  tell  you 
later.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  What  are  you  doing? 
And  where  is  your  mother?" 

Holt  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  would  have  liked 
to  cross-question  her,  but  he  was  the  second  generation 
of  a  rising  family  and  had  learned  that  questions  must 
not  be  pressed. 

"Mother?"  he  said  vaguely.  "Oh,  she's  gone  back  to 
Rawsley.  She  never  was  happy  here.  She  went  back  as 
soon  as  pater  died;  she  missed  the  tea  fights,  you  know, 
and  Bethlehem  and  all  that." 

"It  must  have  been  a  shock  to  you  when  your  father 
died." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  was.  The  old  man  and  I  didn't  ex- 
actly hit  it  off  but,  somehow — those  things  make  you 
realise " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Victoria  sympathetically.  The  simi- 
larity of  deaths  among  the  middle  classes!  Every  woman 
in  the  regiment  had  told  her  that  "these  things  make  you 
realise"  when  Dicky  died.  "But  what  about  you?  Are 
you  still  in — in  cement?" 

"In  cement!"  Jack's  lip  curled.  "The  day  my  father 
died  I  was  out  of  cement.  It's  rather  awful,  you  know, 
to  think  that  my  freedom  depended  on  his  death." 

"Oh,  no;  life  depends  on  death,"  said  Victoria  smoothly. 
"Besides,  we  are  members  of  one  another;  and  when, 
like  you,  Jack,  we  are  a  minority,  we  suffer." 

Holt  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  did  not  quite  under- 
stand her;  she  had  hardened,  he  thought. 

"No,"  he  went  on,  "I've  done  with  the  business.  They 
turned  it  into  a  limited  liability  company  a  month  ago. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  283 

I'm  a  director  because  the  others  say  they  must  have  a 
Holt  in  it;  but  directors  never  do  anything,  you  know." 

"And  you  are  going  to  do  like  the  charwoman,  going 
to  do  nothing,  nothing  for  ever?" 

"No,  I  don't  say  that.  I've  been  writing — verses,  you 
know,  and  some  sketches." 

"Writing?  You  must  be  happy  now,  Jack.  Of  course 
you'll  let  me  see  them?  Are  they  published?" 

"Yes.  At  least,  Amershams  will  bring  out  some  sonnets 
of  mine  next  month." 

"And  are  you  going  to  pass  the  rest  of  your  life  writ- 
ing sonnets?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  want  to  travel.  I'll  go  South 
this  winter  and  get  some  local  colour.  I  might  write  a 
novel." 

His  head  was  thrown  "back  on  the  cushion,  looking  out 
upon  the  blue  southern  sky,  the  blue  waters  speckled  as 
with  foam  by  remote  white  sails. 

"You  might  give  me  a  cigarette,  Jack,"  said  Victoria. 
"They're  in  that  silver  box,  there." 

He  handed  her  the  box  and  struck  a  match.  As  he 
held  it  for  her  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  shapely  white- 
ness of  her  hands,  her  pink,  polished  fingernails,  the 
roundness  of  her  forearm.  Soft  feminine  scents  rose  from 
her  hair;  he  saw  the  dark  tendrils  over  the  nape  of  her 
neck.  Oh,  to  bury  his  lips  in  that  warm,  white  neck! 
His  hand  trembled  as  he  lit  his  own  cigarette  and  Vic- 
toria marked  his  heightened  colour. 

"You'll  come  and  see  me  often,  Jack,  won't  you?" 

"May  I?  It's  so  good  of  you.  I'm  not  going  South 
for  a  couple  of  months." 

"Yes,  you  can  always  telephone.  You'll  find  me  there 
under  Mrs.  Ferris." 

Holt  looked  at  her  once  more. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  prying.  But  you  wrote 
me  saying  I  was  to  ask  for  Mrs.  Ferris.  I  did,  of  course, 
but,  you  .  .  .  you're  not  .  .  .  ?" 

"Married?  No,  Jack.  Don't  ask  me  anything  else. 
You  shall  know  everything  soon." 


284  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  got  up  and  stood  for  a  moment  beside  his  chair. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  hands. 

"There,"  she  said,  "come  along  and  let  me  show  you 
the  house,  and  my  pictures,  and  my  pack  of  hounds." 

He  followed  her  obediently,  giving  its  meed  of  praise 
to  all  her  possessions.  He  did  not  care  for  animals;  he 
lacked  the  generation  of  culture  which  leads  from  cement- 
making  to  a  taste  for  dogs.  The  French  engravings  on 
the  stairs  surprised  him  a  little.  He  had  a  strain  of 
Puritanism  in  him  running  straight  from  Bethlehem,  which 
even  the  reading  of  Swinburne  and  Baudelaire  had  not 
quite  eradicated.  A  vague  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things 
made  him  think  that  somehow  these  were  not  the  pictures 
a  lady  should  hang;  she  might  keep  them  in  a  portfolio. 
Otherwise,  there  were  the  servants.  .  .  . 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  my  bedroom?"  asked  Vic- 
toria, opening  the  door  suddenly. 

Holt  stood  nervously  on  the  threshold.  He  took  in  its 
details  one  by  one,  the  blue  paper,  the  polished  mahogany, 
the  flowered  chintzes,  the  long  glass,  the  lace  curtains;  it 
all  looked  so  comfortable,  so  luxurious  as  to  eclipse  easily 
the  rigidly  good  but  ugly  things  he  had  been  used  to  from 
birth  onwards.  He  looked  at  the  dressing  table,  too,  cov- 
ered with  its  many  bottles  and  brushes;  then  he  started 
slightly  and  again  a  hot  flush  rose  over  his  cheeks.  With 
an  effort  he  detached  his  eyes  from  the  horrid  thing  he 
saw. 

"Very  pretty,  very  pretty,"  he  gasped.  Without  wait- 
ing for  Victoria,  he  turned  and  went  downstairs. 

Within  the  next  week  they  met  again.  Jack  took  no 
notice  of  her  for  four  days,  and  then  suddenly  telephoned, 
asking  her  to  dine  and  to  come  to  the  theatre.  She  was 
still  in  bed  and  she  felt  low-spirited,  full  of  fear  that  her 
trump  would  not  make.  She  accepted  with  an  alacrity 
that  she  regretted  a  minute  later,  but  she  was  drowning 
and  could  not  dally  with  the  lifebelt.  Her  preparation  for 
the  dinner  was  as  elaborate  as  that  which  had  heralded 
her  capture  of  Cairns,  far  more  elaborate  than  any  she 
made  for  the  Vesuvius  where  insolent  beauty  is  a  greater 
asset  than  beauty  as  such.  This  time  she  put  on  her 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  285 

mauve  frock  with  the  heavily  embroidered  silver  shoulder 
straps;  she  wore  little  jewelry,  merely  a  necklet  of  chased 
old  silver  and  amethysts,  and  a  ring  figuring  a  silver 
chimera  with  tiny  diamond  eyes.  As  she  surveyed  herself 
in  the  long  glass,  the  holy  calm  which  comes  over  the 
perfectly-dressed  flowed  into  her  soul  like  a  river  of  honey. 
She  was  immaculate,  and  from  her  unlined  white  forehead 
to  her  jewel-buckled  shoes  she  was  beautiful  in  every  de- 
tail. Subtle  scent  followed  her  like  a  train  bearer. 

The  entire  evening  was  a  tribute.  From  the  moment 
when  Holt  set  eyes  upon  her  and  reluctantly  withdrew 
them  to  direct  the  cabman,  until  they  drove  back  through 
the  night,  she  was  conscious  of  the  wave  of  adulation  that 
broke  at  her  feet.  Men's  eyes  followed  her  every  move- 
ment, drank  in  every  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast,  strove 
to  catch  sight  of  her  teeth,  flashing  white,  ruby  cased. 
Her  progress  through  the  dining  hall  and  the  stalls  was 
imperial  in  its  command.  As  she  saw  men  turn  to  look 
at  her  again,  women  even  grudgingly  analyse  her,  as 
homage  rose  round  her  like  incense,  she  felt  frightened; 
for  this  seemed  to  be  her  triumphant  night,  the  zenith  of 
her  beauty  and  power,  and  perhaps  its  very  intensity 
showed  that  it  was  her  swan  song.  She  felt  a  pain  in  her 
left  leg. 

Jack  Holt  passed  that  evening  at  her  feet.  A  fearful 
exultation  was  upon  him.  The  neighbourhood  of  Victoria 
was  magnetic;  his  heart,  his  senses,  his  aesthetic  sense  were 
equally  enslaved.  She  realised  everything  he  had  dreamed, 
beauty,  culture,  grace,  gentle  wit.  It  hurt  him  physic- 
ally not  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her  still,  that  he  wanted 
her,  that  she  was  everything.  He  revelled  in  the  thought 
that  he  had  found  her  again,  that  she  liked  him,  that  he 
would  see  her  whenever  he  wanted  to,  perhaps  join  his  life 
with  hers;  then  fear  gripped  his  uneven  soul,  fear  that  he 
was  only  her  toy,  that  now  she  was  rich  she  would  tire 
of  him  and  cast  him  into  a  world  swept  by  the  icy  blasts 
of  regret.  And  all  through  ran  the  horribly  suggestive 
memory  of  that  which  he  had  seen  on  the  dressing  table. 

Victoria  was  conscious  of  all  this  storm,  though  unable 
to  interpret  its  squalls  and  its  lulls.  Without  effort  she 


286  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

played  upon  him;  alternately  encouraging  the  pretty 
youth,  bending  towards  him  to  read  his  programme  so  that 
he  could  feel  her  breath  on  his  cheek,  and  drawing  up  and 
becoming  absorbed  in  the  play.  In  the  darkness  she  felt 
his  hand  close  over  hers;  gently  but  firmly  she  freed  her- 
self. As  they  drove  back  to  St.  John's  Wood  they  hardly 
exchanged  a  word.  Victoria  felt  tired;  for  in  the  dark, 
away  from  the  crowds,  the  music,  the  admiration  of  her 
fellows,  reaction  had  full  play.  Holt  found  he  could  say 
nothing,  for  every  nerve  in  his  body  was  tense  with  ex- 
citement. A  hundred  words  were  on  his  lips  but  he  dared 
not  breathe  them  for  fear  of  breaking  the  spell. 

"Come  in  and  have  a  whisky  and  soda  before  you  go," 
said  Victoria  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone  as  he  opened  the 
garden  gate. 

He  could  not  resist.  A  wonderful  feeling  of  intimacy 
overwhelmed  him  as  he  watched  her  switch  on  the  lights 
and  bring  out  a  decanter,  a  syphon  and  glasses.  She  put 
them  on  the  table  and  motioned  him  towards  it,  placing 
one  foot  on  the  fender  to  warm  herself  before  the  glowing 
embers.  His  eyes  did  not  leave  hers.  There  was  a  surge 
of  blood  in  his  head.  One  of  his  hands  fixed  on  her  bare 
arm ;  with  the  other  he  drew  her  towards  him,  crushed  her 
against  his  breast;  she  lay  unresisting  in  his  arms  while 
he  covered  her  lips,  her  neck,  her  shoulders,  with  hot 
kisses,  some  quick  and  passionate,  others  lingering,  full  of 
tenderness.  Then  she  gently  repulsed  him  and  freed  her- 
self. 

"Jack,"  she  said  softly,  "you  shouldn't  have  done  that. 
You  don't  know  .  .  .  you  don't  know  ..." 

He  drew  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  His  brain  seemed 
to  clear  a  little.  The  maddening  mystery  of  it  all  formed 
into  a  question. 

"Victoria,  why  are  those  two  razors  on  your  dressing 
table?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  brief  space.  Then,  very  quietly, 
with  the  deliberation  of  a  surgeon, 

"Need  you  ask?    Do  you  not  understand  what  I  am?" 

His  eyes  went  up  towards  the  ceiling;  his  hands 
clenched;  a  queer  choked  sound  escaped  from  his  throat. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  287 

Victoria  saw  him  suffer,  wounded  as  an  aesthete,  wounded 
in  his  traditional  conception  of  purity,  prejudiced,  un- 
understanding.  For  a  second  she  hated  him  as  one  hates 
a  howling  dog  on  whose  paw  one  has  trodden. 

"Oh,"  he  gasped,  "oh." 

Victoria  watched  him  through  her  downcast  eyelashes. 
Poor  boy,  it  had  to  come.  Pandora  had  opened  the  chest. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  again  with  returning  sanity. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  I  can't  bear  it.  You, 
whom  I  thought  ...  I  can't  bear  it." 

"Poor  boy."    She  took  his  hand.    It  was  hot  and  dry. 

"I  can't  bear  it,"  he  repeated  dully. 

"I  had  to.    It  was  the  only  way." 

"There  is  always  a  way.  It's  awful."  His  voice 
broke. 

"Jack,"  she  said  softly,  "the  world's  a  hard  place  for 
women.  It  takes  from  them  either  hard  labour  or  grati- 
fication. I've  done  my  best.  For  a  whole  year  I  worked. 
I  worked  ten  hours  a  day,  I've  starved  almost,  I've 
swabbed  floors.  ..." 

He  withdrew  his  hand  with  a  jerk.  He  could  bear  that 
even  less  than  her  confession. 

"Then  a  man  came,"  she  went  on  relentlessly,  "a  good 
man  who  offered  me  ease,  peace,  happiness.  I  was  poor, 
I  was  ill.  What  could  I  do?  Then  he  died  and  I  was 
alone.  What  could  I  do?  Ah,  don't  believe  mine  is  a 
bed  of  roses,  Jack!" 

He  had  turned  away,  and  was  looking  into  the  dying 
fire.  His  ideals,  his  prejudices,  all  were  in  the  melting 
pot.  Here  was  the  woman  who  had  been  his  earliest 
dream,  degraded,  irretrievably  soiled.  Whatever  hap- 
pened he  could  not  forget;  not  even  love  could  break 
down  the  terrific  barrier  which  generations  of  hard  and 
honest  men  of  Rawsley  had  erected  in  his  soul  between 
straight  women  and  the  others.  But  she  was  the  dream 
still:  beautiful,  all  that  his  heart  desired;  such  that  (and 
he  felt  it  like  an  awful  taunt)  he  could  not  give  her  up. 

He  looked  at  her,  at  her  sorrowful  face.  No,  he  could 
not  let  her  pass  out  of  his  life.  He  thought  of  disjointed 
things.  He  could  see  his  mother's  face,  the  black  streets 


288  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

of  Rawsley;  he  thought  of  the  pastor  at  Bethlehem  de- 
nouncing sin.  All  his  standards  were  jarred.  He  had 
nothing  to  hold  on  to  while  everything  seemed  to  slip: 
ideals,  resolutions,  dreams;  nothing  remained  save  the 
horrible  sweetness  of  the  mermaid's  face. 

"Let  me  think,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "let  me  think." 

Victoria  said  nothing.  He  was  in  hands  stronger  than 
hers.  He  was  fighting  his  tradition,  the  blood  of  the 
Covenanters,  for  her  sake.  Nothing  that  she  could  say 
would  help  him;  it  might  impede  him.  He  had  turned 
away;  she  could  see  nothing  of  his  face.  Then  he  looked 
into  her  eyes. 

"What  was  can  never  be  again,"  he  said;  "what  I 
dreamed  can  never  be.  You  were  my  beacon  and  my 
hope.  I  have  only  found  you  to  lose  you.  If  I  were  to 
marry  you  there  would  always  be  that  between  us,  the 
past." 

"Then  do  not  marry  me.  I  do  not  ask  you  to."  Her 
voice  went  down  to  a  whisper  and  she  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders.  "Let  me  be  another,  a  new  dream,  less 
golden,  but  sweet." 

She  put  her  face  almost  against  his,  gazing  into  his 
eyes.  "Do  not  leave  this  house  and  I  will  be  everything 
for  you." 

She  felt  a  shudder  run  through  him  as  if  he  would  repel 
her,  but  she  did  not  relax  her  hold  or  her  gaze.  She  drew 
nearer  to  him,  and  inch  by  inch  his  arms  went  round  her. 
For  a  second  they  swayed  close  locked  together.  As  they 
fell  into  the  deep  armchair  her  loose,  black  hair  uncoiled, 
and,  falling,  buried  their  faces  in  its  shadow. 

CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  months  which  followed  emerged  but  slowly  from 
blankness  for  these  two  who  had  joined  their  lives  to- 
gether. Both  had  a  difficulty  in  realising,  the  woman 
that  she  had  laid  the  coping  stone  of  her  career,  the  man 
that  he  was  happy  as  may  be  an  opium  eater.  The  first 
days  were  electric,  hectic.  Victoria  felt  limp,  for  her 
nerves  had  been  worn  down  by  the  excitement  and  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  289 

anxiety  of  making  sure  of  her  conquest.  The  reaction  left 
her  rather  depressed  than  glowing  with  success.  Jack  was 
beyond  scruples;  he  felt  that  he  had  passed  the  Rubicon. 
He  was  false  to  his  theories  and  his  ideals,  in  revolt  against 
his  upbringing.  At  the  outset  he  revelled  in  the  thought 
that  he  was  cutting  himself  adrift  from  the  ugly  past. 
It  was  joyful  to  think  that  the  pastor  in  his  whitewashed 
barn  would  covertly  select  him  as  a  text.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  fettered  life  he  saw  that  the  outlaw  alone  is 
free;  both  he  and  Victoria  were  outlaws,  but  she  had 
tasted  the  bitterness  of  ostracism  while  he  was  still  at  the 
stage  of  welcoming  it. 

As  the  weeks  wore,  however,  Victoria  realised  her  posi- 
tion better  and  splendid  peace  flowed  in  upon  her.  She 
did  not  love  Holt;  she  began  even  to  doubt  whether  she 
could  love  any  man  if  she  could  not  love  him,  this  hand- 
some youth  with  the  delicate  soul,  grace,  generosity.  It 
was  not  his  mental  weakness  that  repelled  her,  for  he  was 
virile  enough;  nor  was  it  the  touch  of  provincialism 
against  which  his  intelligence  struggled.  It  was  rather 
that  he  did  not  attract  her.  He  was  clever  enough,  well 
read,  kind,  but  he  lacked  magnetism;  he  had  nothing  of 
the  slumberous  fire  which  distinguished  Farwell.  His 
passion  was  personal,  his  outlook  theoretical  and  limited; 
there  was  nothing  purposeful  in  his  ideas.  He  had  no 
message  for  her.  In  no  wise  did  he  repel  her,  though. 
Sometimes  she  would  take  his  face  between  her  hands,  look 
awhile  into  the  blue  eyes  where  there  always  lurked  some 
wistfulness,  and  then  kiss  him  just  once  and  quickly,  with- 
out knowing  why. 

"Why  do  you  do  that,  Vicky?"  he  asked  once. 

She  had  not  answered  but  had  merely  kissed  his  cheek 
again.  She  hardly  knew  how  to  tell  him  that  she  sighed 
because  she  could  only  consent  to  love  him  instead  of 
offering  to  do  so.  While  he  was  sunk  in  his  daily  growing 
ease  she  was  again  thinking  of  ultimate  ends  and  despised 
herself  a  little  for  it.  She  had  to  be  alone  for  a  while 
before  she  could  regain  self-control,  remember  the  terrible 
tyranny  of  man  and  her  resolve  to  be  free.  Gentle  Jack 
was  a  man,  one  of  the  oppressors,  and  as  such  he  must  be 


290  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

used  as  an  instrument  against  his  sex.  The  very  ease  with 
which  she  swayed  him,  with  which  she  could  foresee  her 
victory,  unnerved  her  a  little.  When  she  answered  his 
hesitating  question  as  to  how  much  she  needed  to  live,  she 
had  to  force  herself  to  lie,  to  trade  on  his  enslavement  by 
asking  him  for  two  thousand  a  year.  She  dared  to  name 
the  figure,  for  "Whitaker"  told  her  that  the  only  son  of 
an  intestate  takes  two-thirds  of  the  estate;  the  book  had 
also  put  her  on  the  track  of  the  registration  of  joint-stock 
companies.  A  visit  to  Somerset  House  enabled  her  to 
discover  that  some  three  hundred  thousand  shares  of  Holt's 
Cement  Works,  Ltd.,  stood  in  the  name  of  John  Holt;  as 
they  were  quoted  in  the  paper  something  above  par  he 
could  hardly  be  worth  less  than  fifteen  thousand  a  year. 

She  had  expected  to  have  to  explain  her  needs,  to  have 
to  exaggerate  her  rent,  the  cost  of  her  clothes,  but  Holt 
did  not  say  a  word  beyond  "all  right."  She  had  told  him 
it  hurt  her  to  take  money  from  him;  and  that,  so  as  to 
avoid  the  subject,  she  would  like  him  to  tell  his  bankers 
to  pay  the  monthly  instalments  into  her  account.  He  had 
agreed  and  then  talked  of  their  trip  to  the  South.  Clearly 
the  whole  matter  was  repugnant  to  him.  As  neither 
wanted  to  talk  about  it  the  subject  was  soon  almost  for- 
gotten. 

They  left  England  early  in  December  after  shutting  up 
the  house.  Victoria  did  not  care  to  leave  it  in  charge  of 
Laura,  so  decided  to  give  her  a  three-months'  holiday  on 
full  pay;  Augusta  accompanied  them.  The  sandy-haired 
German  was  delighted  with  the  change  in  the  fortunes  of 
her  mistress.  She  felt  that  Holt  must  be  very  rich,  and 
doubted  not  that  her  dowry  would  derive  some  benefit 
from  him.  Snoo  and  Poo  were  left  in  Laura's  charge. 
Victoria  paid  a  quarter's  rent  in  advance,  also  the  rates; 
insured  against  burglary,  and  left  England  as  it  settled 
into  the  winter  night. 

The  next  three  months  were  probably  the  most  steadily 
happy  she  had  ever  known.  They  had  taken  a  small  house 
known  as  the  Villa  Mehari  just  outside  Algiers.  A  French 
cook  and  a  taciturn  Kabyl  completed  their  establishment. 
The  villa  was  a  curious  compromise  between  East  and 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  291 

West.  Its  architect  had  turned  out  similar  ones  in  scores 
at  Argenteuil  and  Saint  Cloud,  saving  the  minaret  and  the 
deep  verandah  which  faced  the  balmy  west.  From  the 
precipitous  little  garden  where  orange  and  lime  trees  bent 
beneath  their  fruit  among  the  underbrush  of  aloes  and 
cactus,  they  could  see,  far  away,  the  estranging  sea. 

The  Kabyl  had  slung  a  hammock  for  Victoria  between 
a  gate-post  and  a  gigantic  clump  of  palm  trees.  There 
she  passed  most  of  her  days,  lazily  swinging  in  the  breeze 
which  tumbled  her  black  hair;  while  Jack,  lying  at  her 
feet  in  the  crisp  rough  grass,  looked  long  at  her  sun- 
warmed  beauty.  The  days  seemed  to  fly,  for  they  were 
hardly  conscious  of  the  recurrence  of  life.  It  was  sunrise, 
when  it  was  good  to  go  into  the  garden  and  see  the  blue 
green  night  blush  softly  into  salmon  pink,  then  burst  sud- 
denly into  tropical  radiance:  then,  vague  occupations,  a 
short  walk  over  stony  paths  to  a  cafe  where  the  East  and 
West  met;  unexpected  food;  sleep  in  the  heat  of  the  day 
under  the  nets  beyond  which  the  crowding  flies  buzzed; 
then  the  waning  of  the  day,  the  heat  settling  more  leaden ; 
sunset,  the  cold  snapping  suddenly,  the  night  wind  car- 
rying little  puffs  of  dust,  and  the  muezzin,  hands  aloft, 
droning,  his  face  towards  the  East,  praises  of  his  God. 

Holt  was  totally  happy.  He  felt  he  had  reached  Capua, 
and  not  even  a  thought  of  his  past  life  could  disturb  him. 
He  asked  for  nothing  now  but  to  live  without  a  thought, 
eating  juicy  fruit,  smoking  for  an  hour  the  subtle  narghile; 
he  loved  to  bask  in  the  radiance  of  the  African  sun  of 
Victoria's  beauty,  which  seemed  to  expand,  to  enwrap  him 
in  perfume  like  a  heavy  narcotic  dose.  In  the  early  days 
he  tried  to  work,  to  attune  himself  to  the  pageant  of  sun- 
lit life.  His  will  refused  to  act,  and  he  found  he  could 
not  write  a  line;  even  rhymes  refused  to  come  to  him. 
Without  an  effort  almost  he  resigned  himself  into  the  soft 
hands  of  the  East.  He  even  exaggerated  his  acceptance 
by  clothing  himself  in  a  burnous  and  turban,  by  trying  to 
introduce  Algerian  food,  couscous,  roast  kid,  date  jam, 
pomegranate  jelly.  At  times  they  would  go  into  Algiers, 
shop  in  the  Rue  Bab-Azoum,  or  search  for  the  true  East 
in  what  the  French  called  the  high  town.  But  Algiers  is 


292  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

not  the  East;  and  they  quickly  returned  to  the  Villa  Me- 
hari,  stupefied  by  the  roar  of  the  trams,  the  cries  of  the 
water  and  chestnut  vendors,  all  their  senses  offended  by 
the  cafes  on  the  wharf  where  sailors  from  every  land  drank 
vodka,  arrack,  pale  ale,  among  zouaves  and  chasseurs 
d'Afrique. 

Sometimes  Holt  would  go  into  Algiers  by  himself  and 
remain  away  all  day.  Victoria  stayed  at  the  villa  careless 
of  flying  time,  desultorily  reading  Heine  or  sitting  in  the 
garden  where  she  could  play  with  the  golden  and  green 
beetles.  Her  solitude  was  complete,  for  Holt  had  avoided 
the  British  consul  and,  of  course,  knew  none  of  the 
Frenchmen.  She  watched  the  current  of  her  life  flow 
away,  content  to  know  that  all  the  while  her  little  fortune 
was  increasing.  England  was  so  far  as  to  seem  in  another 
world.  Christmas  was  gone;  and  the  link  of  a  ten-pound 
note  to  Betty,  to  help  to  furnish  the  house  at  Shepherd's 
Bush,  had  faded  away.  When  she  was  alone,  those  days, 
she  could  not  throw  her  mind  back  to  the  ugly,  brutish 
past,  so  potently  was  the  influence  of  the  East  growing 
upon  her  being.  Then  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  Jack 
would  return,  gay,  and  anxious  to  see  her,  to  throw  his 
arms  round  her  and  hold  her  to  him  again.  Those  were 
the  days  when  he  brought  her  some  precious  offering, 
aquamarines  set  in  hand-wrought  gold,  or  chaplets  of 
strung  pearls. 

"Jack,"  she  said  to  him  one  day  as  he  lay  in  the  grass 
at  her  feet,  "do  you  then  love  me  very  much?" 

"Very  much."  He  took  her  hand  and,  raising  himself 
upon  his  elbow,  gravely  kissed  it. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you're  all  the  poetry  of  the  world.  Because 
you  make  me  dream  dreams,  my  Aspasia." 

She  gently  stroked  his  dark  hair. 

"And  to  think  that  you  are  one  of  the  enemy,  Jack!" 

"One  of  the  enemy?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Man  is  woman's  enemy,  Jack.  Our  relation  is  a  war 
of  sex." 

"It's  not  true."    Jack  flushed;  the  idea  was  repulsive. 

"It  is  true.    Man  dominates  woman  by  force,  by  man- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  293 

made  law;  he  restricts  her  occupations;  he  limits  her 
chances;  he  judges  of  her  attire;  he  denies  her  the  right 
to  be  ugly,  to  be  old,  to  be  coarse,  to  be  vicious." 

"But  you  wouldn't " 

"I'd  have  everything  the  same,  Jack." 

Holt  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  do  keep  them  down.  But  they're 
different.  You  see,  men  are  men  and — 

"I  know  the  rest.  But  never  mind,  Jack  dear,  you're 
not  like  the  others.  You'll  never  be  a  conqueror." 

Then  she  muzzled  him  with  her  hand,  and,  kissing  its 
scented  palm,  he  thought  no  more  of  the  stern  game  in 
which  they  were  the  shuttlecocks. 

The  spring  was  touching  Europe  with  its  wings;  and 
here  already  the  summer  was  bursting  the  seed  pods,  the 
sap  breaking  impatiently  through  the  branches.  All  the 
wet  warmth  of  the  brief  African  blooming  ran  riot  in 
thickening  leaf.  The  objective  of  Jack's  life,  influenced 
as  he  was  by  the  air,  was  Victoria  and  the  ever  more  con- 
suming love  he  bore  her;  the  minutes  only  counted  when 
he  was  by  her  side,  watching  her  every  movement,  in- 
haling, touching  her.  All  her  energies  seemed  to  have  been 
driven  into  this  narrow  channel.  He  was  ready  to  move 
or  to  remain  as  Victoria  might  direct;  he  spoke  little,  he 
basked.  Thus  he  agreed  to  extending  their  stay  for  a 
month;  he  agreed  to  shorten  it  by  a  fortnight  when  Vic- 
toria, suddenly  realising  that  her  life  force  was  wasting 
away  in  this  enervating  atmosphere,  decided  to  go  home. 

Victoria's  progress  to  London  was  like  the  march  of  a 
conqueror.  She  stopped  in  Paris  to  renew  her  clothes. 
There  Jack  knew  hours  of  waiting  in  the  hired  victoria 
while  his  queen  was  trying  on  frocks.  He  showed  such 
a  childish  joy  in  it  all  that  she  indulged  her  fancy,  her 
every  whim;  dresses,  wraps,  lace  veils,  furs,  hats  massive 
with  ostrich  feathers,  aigrettes,  delicate  kid  boots,  gilt 
shoes,  amassed  in  their  suite.  Jack  egged  her  on;  he 
rioted,  too.  Often  he  would  stop  the  victoria  and  rush 
into  a  shop  if  he  saw  something  he  liked  in  the  window, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  return  with  it,  excitedly  demanding 
praise.  He  did  not  seem  to  understand  or  care  for  money, 


2Q4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  have  any  wants  except  cigarettes.    He  followed,  and  in 
his  beautiful  dog-like  eyes  devotion  daily  grew. 

They  entered  London  on  a  bustling  April  day.  A 
biting  east  wind  carried  raindrops  and  sunshine.  As  it 
stung  her  face  and  whipped  her  blood,  Victoria  found  the 
old  fierce  soul  reincarnating  itself  in  her.  She  opened 
her  mouth  to  take  in  the  cold  English  air,  to  bend  herself 
for  the  finishing  of  her  task. 

CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  in  London  that  the  real  battle  began.  In  Algiers 
the  scented  winds  made  hideous  and  unnatural  all 
thoughts  of  gain.  On  arriving  in  London  Victoria  ascer- 
tained with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  that  her  bank  had  received 
a  thousand  pounds  since  October.  After  disposing  of  a 
few  small  debts  and  renewing  some  trifles  in  the  house, 
she  found  herself  a  capitalist:  she  had  about  fifteen  hun- 
dred pounds  of  her  own.  The  money  was  lying  at  the 
bank  and  it  only  struck  her  then  that  the  time  had  come 
to  invest  it.  Her  interview  with  the  manager  of  her 
branch  was  a  delightful  experience;  she  was  almost  burst- 
ing with  importance,  and  his  courteous  appreciation  of  his 
increasingly  wealthy  client  was  something  more  than  balm. 
It  was  a  foretaste  of  the  power  of  money.  She  had  known 
poor  men  respected,  but  not  poor  women;  now  the  bank 
manager  was  giving  her  respectful  attention  because  she 
had  fifteen  hundred  pounds. 

"You  might  buy  some  industrials,"  he  said. 

"Industrials?    What  are  they?" 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  things.  Cotton  mills,  iron  works,  trad- 
ing companies,  anything." 

"Cement  works?"  she  asked  with  a  spark  of  devilry. 

"Yes,  cement  works,  too,"  said  the  manager  without 
moving  a  muscle. 

"But  do  you  call  them  safe?"  she  asked,  returning  to 
business. 

"Oh,  fairly.  Of  course,  there  are  bad  years  and  good. 
But  the  debentures  are  mostly  all  right  and  some  of  the 
prefs." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  295 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment.  Reminiscences  of  po- 
litical economy  told  her  that  there  were  booms  and  slumps. 

"Has  trade  been  good  lately?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"No,  not  for  the  last  two  years  or  so.  It's  picking  up 
though.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  then  we're  in  for  a  cycle  of  good  trade.  I  think 
I'll  have  some  industrials.  You  might  pick  me  out  the 
best." 

The  manager  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  this  knowl- 
edge of  commercial  crises,  but  said  nothing  more,  and 
made  out  a  list  of  securities  averaging  six  per  cent  net. 

"And  please  buy  me  a  hundred  P.R.R.  shares,"  added 
Victoria. 

She  could  have  laughed  at  the  manager's  stony  face 
because  he  did  not  see  the  humour  of  this.  He  merely 
said  that  he  would  forward  the  orders  to  a  stockbroker. 

Victoria  felt  that  she  had  put  her  hand  to  the  plough. 
She  was  scoring  so  heavily  that  she  never  now  wished  to 
turn  back.  Holt  was  every  day  growing  more  dreamy, 
more  absorbed  in  his  thoughts.  He  never  seemed  to 
quicken  into  action  except  when  his  companion  touched 
him.  He  grew  more  silent,  too;  the  hobbledehoy  was 
gone.  He  was  at  his  worst  when  he  had  received  a  letter 
bearing  the  Rawsley  postmark.  Victoria  knew  of  these, 
for  Holt's  need  of  her  grew  greater  every  day;  he  was  now 
living  at  Elm  Tree  Place.  He  hardly  left  the  house.  He 
got  up  late  and  passed  the  morning  in  the  boudoir,  smok- 
ing cigarettes,  desultorily  reading  and  nursing  the  Peking- 
ese which  he  now  liked  better.  But  on  the  days  when  he 
got  letters  from  Rawsley,  letters  so  bulky  that  they  were 
sometimes  insufficiently  stamped,  he  would  go  out  early 
and  only  return  at  night.  Then,  however,  he  returned  as 
if  he  had  been  running,  full  of  some  nameless  fear;  he 
would  strain  Victoria  to  him  and  hold  her  very  close,  bury- 
ing his  face  below  the  bedclothes  as  if  he  were  afraid.  On 
one  of  those  days  Victoria  accidentally  saw  him  come  out 
of  a  small  dissenting  chapel  near  by.  He  did  not  see  her, 
for  he  was  walking  away  like  a  man  possessed;  she  said 
nothing  of  this,  but  understood  him  better,  having  an 


296  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

inkling  that  the  fight  against  the  Rawsley  tradition  was 
still  going  on. 

She  did  not,  however,  allow  herself  to  be  moved  by  his 
struggle.  It  behoved  her  to  hold  him,  for  he  was  her  last 
chance  and  the  world  looked  rosy  round  her.  As  the 
spring  turned  into  summer  he  became  more  utterly  hers. 

"You  distil  poison  for  me,"  he  said  one  day  as  they  sat 
by  the  rose-hung  pergola. 

"No,  Jack,  don't  say  that,  it's  the  elixir  of  life." 

"The  elixir  of  life.  Perhaps,  but  poison,  too.  To  make 
me  live  is  to  make  me  die,  Victoria;  we  are  both  sicken- 
ing for  death  and  to  hasten  the  current  of  life  is  to  hasten 
our  doom." 

"Live  quickly,"  she  whispered,  bending  towards  him; 
"did  you  live  at  all  a  year  ago?" 

"No,  no."  His  arms  were  round  her  and  his  lips  insist- 
ent on  hers.  He  frightened  her  a  little,  though.  She 
would  have  to  take  him  away.  She  had  already  confided 
this  new  trouble  to  Betty  when  the  latter  came  to  see  her 
in  April,  but  Betty,  beyond  suggesting  cricket,  had  been 
too  full  of  her  own  affairs.  Apparently  these  were  not 
going  very  well.  Anderson  &  Dromo's  had  not  granted 
the  rise,  and  the  marriage  had  been  postponed.  Mean- 
while, she  was  still  at  the  P.R.R.,  and  very,  very  happy. 
Betty  too,  her  baby,  her  other  baby,  frightened  Victoria 
a  little.  She  was  so  rosy,  so  pretty  now,  and  there  was 
something  defiant  and  excited  about  her  that  might  pres- 
age disease.  But  Betty  had  not  come  near  her  for  the 
last  two  months. 

About  the  middle  of  June  she  took  Jack  away  to 
Broadstairs.  He  was  willing  to  go  or  stay,  just  as  she 
liked.  He  seemed  so  neutral  that  Victoria  experimented 
upon  him  by  presenting  him  with  a  sheaf  of  unpaid  bills. 
He  looked  at  them  languidly  and  said  he  supposed  they 
must  be  paid,  asked  her  to  add  them  up  and  wrote  a 
cheque  for  the  full  amount.  Apparently  he  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  allowance,  or  di3  not  care. 

Broadstairs  seemed  to  do  him  good.  Except  at  the  week 
end  the  Hotel  Sylvester  was  almost  empty.  The  sea 
breeze  blew  stiffly  from  the  north  or  the  east.  His  colour 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  297 

increased  and  once  more  he  began  to  talk.  Victoria  en- 
couraged him  to  take  long  walks  alone  along  the  front. 
She  had  some  occupation,  for  two  little  girls  who  were 
there  in  charge  of  a  Swiss  governess  had  adopted  the 
lovely  lady  as  their  aunt.  A  new  sweetness  had  come  into 
her  life,  shrill  voices,  the  clinging  of  little  hands.  Some- 
times these  four  would  walk  together,  and  Holt  would  run 
with  the  children,  tumbling  in  the  sand  in  sheer  merri- 
ment. 

"You  seem  all  right  again,  Jack,"  said  Victoria  on  the 
tenth  morning. 

"Right!     Rather,  by  Jove,  it's  good  to  live,  Vicky." 

"You  were  a  bit  off  colour,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  I  was.  But  now,  I  feel  nothing  can  hold 
me.  I  wrote  a  rondeau  this  morning  on  the  pier.  Want 
to  see  it?" 

"Of  course,  silly  boy.  Aren't  you  going  to  be  the  next 
great  poet?" 

She  read  the  rondeau,  scrawled  in  pencil  on  the  back 
of  a  bill.  It  was  delicate,  a  little  colourless. 

"Lovely,"  she  said,  "of  course  you'll  send  it  to  the 
Westminster." 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  hulloa,  there  are  the  kiddies."  He  ran 
off  down  the  steps  from  the  front.  A  minute  after  Vic- 
toria saw  him  helping  the  elder  girl  to  bury  her  little  sister 
in  the  sand. 

Victoria  felt  much  reassured.  He  was  normal  again,  the 
half -wistful,  half -irresponsible  boy  she  had  once  known. 
He  slept  well,  laughed,  and  his  crying  need  for  her  seemed 
to  have  abated.  At  the  end  of  the  fortnight  Victoria  was 
debating  whether  she  should  take  him  home.  She  was  in 
the  hotel  garden  talking  to  the  smaller  girl,  telling  her  a 
wonderful  story  about  the  fairy  who  lived  in  the  telephone 
and  said  ping-pong  when  the  line  was  engaged.  The  little 
girl  sat  upon  her  knee;  when  she  laughed  Victoria's  heart 
bounded.  The  elder  girl  came  through  the  gate  leading 
a  good-looking  young  woman  in  white  by  the  hand. 

"Oh,  mummie,  here's  auntie,"  cried  the  child,  dragging 
her  mother  up  to  Victoria.  The  two  women  looked  at 
one  another. 


298  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"They  tell  me  you  have  been  very  kind  .  .  ."  said  the 
woman.  Then  she  stopped  abruptly. 

"Of  course,  mummie,  she's  not  really  our  auntie,"  said 
the  child  confidentially. 

Victoria  put  the  small  girl  down.  The  mother  looked 
at  her  again.  She  seemed  so  nice  and  refined  .  .  .  yet 
her  husband  said  that  the  initials  on  the  trunks  were  dif- 
ferent .  .  .  one  had  to  be  careful. 

"Come  here,  Celia,"  she  said  sharply.  "Thank  you," 
she  added  to  Victoria.  Then  taking  her  little  girls  by  the 
hand  she  took  them  away. 

Jack  willingly  left  Broadstairs  that  afternoon  when  Vic- 
toria explained  that  she  was  tired  and  that  something  had 
made  her  low-spirited. 

"Right  oh!"  he  said.  "Let's  go  back  to  town.  I  want 
to  see  Amershams  and  find  out  how  those  sonnets  have 
sold." 

He  then  left  her  to  wire  to  Augusta. 

Their  life  in  town  resumed  its  former  course,  inter- 
rupted only  by  a  month  in  North  Devon.  Jack's  cure  was 
complete;  he  was  sunburnt,  fatter;  the  joy  of  life  shone 
in  his  blue  eyes.  Sometimes  Victoria  found  herself  grow- 
ing younger  by  contagion,  sloughing  the  horrible  miry 
coat  of  the  past.  If  her  heart  had  not  been  atrophied 
she  would  have  loved  the  boy  whom  she  always  treated 
with  motherly  gentleness.  His  need  of  her  was  so  crying, 
so  total,  that  he  lost  all  his  self-consciousness.  He  would 
sit  unblushing  by  her  side  in  the  bow  of  a  fishing  smack, 
holding  her  hand  and  looking  raptly  into  her  grey  eyes; 
he  was  indifferent  to  the  red  brown  fisherman  with  the 
Spanish  eyes  and  curly  black  hair  who  smiled  as  the 
turtle  doves  clustered.  His  need  of  her  was  as  mental  as 
it  was  physical;  his  body  was  whipped  by  the  salt  air  to 
seek  in  her  arms  oblivion,  but  his  mind  had  become  equally 
dependent.  She  was  his  need. 

Thus  when  they  came  back  to  town  the  riot  continued; 
and  Victoria,  breasting  the  London  tide,  dragged  him  un- 
resisting in  her  rear.  She  hated  excitement  in  every  form, 
excitement  that  is  of  the  puerile  kind.  Restaurant  dining, 
horse  shows,  flower  shows,  the  Academy,  tea  in  Bond 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  299 

Street,  even  the  theatre  and  its  most  inane  successes,  were 
for  her  a  weariness  to  the  flesh. 

"I've  had  enough,"  she  said  to  Jack  one  day.  "I'm  sick 
of  it  all.  I've  got  congestion  of  the  appreciative  sense. 
One  day  I  shall  chuck  it  all  up,  go  and  live  in  the  country, 
have  big  dogs  and  a  saddle  horse,  dress  in  tweeds  and  read 
the  local  agricultural  rag." 

"Give  up  smoking,  go  to  church,  and  play  tennis  with 
the  curate,  the  doctor  and  the  squire's  flapper,"  added 
Holt.  "But  Vicky,  why  not  go  now?" 

"No,  oh,  no,  I  can't  do  that."  She  was  frightened  by 
her  own  suggestion.  "I  must  drain  the  cup  of  pleasure  so 
as  to  be  sure  that  it's  all  pain;  then  I'll  retire  and  drain 
the  cup  of  resignation  .  .  .  unless,  as  I  sometimes  think, 
it's  empty." 

Jack  had  said  nothing  to  this.  Her  wildness  surprised 
and  shocked  him.  She  was  so  savage  and  yet  so  sweet. 

Victoria  realised  that  she  must  hold  fast  to  the  town, 
for  there  alone  could  she  succeed.  In  the  peace  of  the 
country  she  would  not  have  the  opportunities  she  had 
now.  Jack  was  in  her  hands.  She  never  hesitated  to  ask 
for  money,  and  Jack  responded  without  a  word.  Her 
account  grew  by  leaps  and  bounds.  The  cashier  began 
to  ask  whether  she  wanted  to  see  the  manager  when  she 
called  at  the  bank.  She  could  see,  some  way  off  but 
clearly,  the  beacons  on  the  coast  of  hope. 

All  through  Jack's  moods  she  had  suffered  from  the 
defection  of  Betty.  On  her  return  from  Broadstairs  she 
had  written  to  her  to  come  to  Elm  Tree  Place,  but  had 
received  no  answer.  This  happened  again  in  September; 
and  fear  took  hold  of  her,  for  Betty  had,  ivy-like,  twined 
herself  very  closely  round  Victoria's  heart  of  oak.  She 
went  to  Finsbury;  but  Betty  had  gone,  leaving  no  address. 
She  went  to  the  P.R.R.  also.  The  place  had  become 
ghostly,  for  the  familiar  faces  had  gone.  The  manageress 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  nor  was  Nelly,  probably  by  now 
a  manageress  herself.  Betty  was  not  there,  and  the  girl 
who  wonderingly  served  the  beautiful  lady  with  a  tea-cake 
said  that  no  girl  of  that  name  was  employed  at  the  depot. 
Then  Victoria  saw  herself  sitting  in  the  churchyard  of  her 


300  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

past,  between  the  two  dear  ghosts  of  Farwell  and  Betty, 
The  customers  had  changed,  or  their  faces  had  receded  so 
that  she  knew  them  no  more:  they  still  played  matador 
and  fives  and  threes,  chess,  too.  Alone  the  chains  re- 
mained which  the  ghosts  had  rattled.  Silently  she  went 
away,  turning  over  that  leaf  of  her  life  forever.  Farwell 
was  dead,  and  Betty  gone — married  probably — and  in 
Shepherd's  Bush,  not  daring  to  allow  Victoria's  foot  to 
sully  the  threshold  of  "First  Words  of  Love." 

Her  conviction  that  Betty  was  false  had  a  kind  of  tonic 
effect  upon  her.  She  was  alone  and  herself  again;  she 
realised  that  the  lonely  being  is  the  strong  being.  Now, 
at  last,  she  could  include  the  last  woman  she  had  known 
in  the  category  of  those  who  threw  stones.  And  her  de- 
termination to  be  free  grew  apace. 

She  invented  a  reason  every  day  to  extract  money  from 
Holt.  He,  blindly  desirous,  careless  of  money,  acceded  to 
every  fresh  demand.  Now  it  was  a  faked  bill  from  Bar- 
bezan  Soeurs  for  two  hundred  pounds,  now  the  rent  in 
arrear,  a  blue  rates  notice,  an  offhand  request  for  a  fiver 
to  pay  the  servants,  the  vet's  bill  or  the  price  of  a  cab. 
Holt  drew  and  overdrew.  If  a  suspicion  ever  entered  his 
mind  that  he  was  being  exploited,  he  dismissed  it  at  once, 
telling  himself  that  Victoria  was  rather  extravagant.  For 
a  time  letters  from  Rawsley  synchronised  with  her  fresh 
demands,  but  repetition  had  dulled  their  effects:  now  Holt 
postponed  reading  them;  after  a  time  she  saw  him  throw 
one  into  the  fire  unread.  Little  by  little  they  grew  rarer. 
Then  they  ceased.  Holt  was  eaten  up  by  his  passion,  and 
Victoria's  star  rose  high. 

All  conspired  to  favour  her  fortune.  Perhaps  her  acu- 
men had  helped  her,  too,  for  she  had  seen  correctly  the 
coming  boom.  Trade  rose  by  leaps  and  bounds;  every  day 
new  shops  seemed  to  open ;  the  stalks  of  the  Central  Lon- 
don Railway  could  be  seen  belching  clouds  of  smoke  as 
they  ground  out  electric  power;  the  letter-box  at  Elm 
Tree  Place  was  clogged  with  circulars  denoting  by  the 
fury  of  their  competition  that  trade  was  flying  as  on  a 
great  wind.  Other  signs,  too,  were  not  wanting:  the  main 
streets  of  London  were  blocked  by  lorries  groaning  under 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  301 

machinery,  vegetables,  stone;  immense  queues  formed  at 
the  railway  stations  waiting  for  the  excursion  trains; 
above  all,  rose  the  sound  of  gold  as  it  hissed  and  sizzled  as 
if  molten  on  the  pavements,  flowing  into  the  pockets  of 
merchants,  bankers  and  shareholders.  All  the  women  at 
the  Vesuvius  indulged  in  new  clothes. 

Victoria's  investments  were  seized  by  the  current.  She 
had  not  entirely  followed  the  bank  manager's  advice. 
Seeing,  feeling  the  movement,  she  had  realised  most  of  her 
debentures  and  turned  them  into  shares.  One  of  her 
ventures  collapsed,  but  the  remainder  appreciated  to  an 
extraordinary  extent.  At  last,  in  *he  waning  days  of  the 
year  her  middle-class  prudence  reasserted  itself.  She  knew 
enough  of  political  economy  to  be  ready  for  the  crash; 
she  realised.  One  cold  morning  in  November  she  counted 
up  her  spoils.  She  had  nearly  five  thousand  pounds.  • 

Meanwhile,  while  her  blood  was  aglow,  Holt  sank  fur- 
ther into  the  dullness  of  his  senses.  A  mania  was  upon 
him.  Waking,  his  thought  was  Victoria;  and  the  cry  for 
her  rose  everlasting  from  his  racked  body.  She  was  all, 
she  was  everywhere;  and  the  desire  for  her,  for  her  beauty, 
her  red  lips,  soaked  into  him  like  a  philtre,  narcotic  and 
then  fiery  but  ever  present,  intimate  and  exacting.  He 
was  her  thing,  her  toy,  the  paltry  instrument  which  re- 
sponded to  her  every  touch.  He  rejoiced  in  his  subjec- 
tion; he  swam  in  his  passion  like  a  pilgrim  in  the  Ganges 
to  find  brief  oblivion;  but  again  the  thirst  was  on  him, 
ravaging,  ever  demanding  more.  More,  more,  ever  more, 
in  the  watches  of  the  night,  when  ice  seizes  the  world  to 
throttle  it — among  all,  in  turmoil  and  in  peace — he  tossed 
upon  the  passionate  sea;  with  one  thought,  one  hope. 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

"I'M  glad  we're  going  away,  Jack,"  said  Victoria,  lean- 
ing back  in  the  cab  and  looking  at  him  critically.  "You 
look  as  if  you  wanted  a  change." 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Jack. 

Victoria  looked  at  him  again.  He  had  not  smiled  as  he 
spoke  to  her,  which  was  unusual.  He  seemed  thinner  and 


302  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

more  delicate  than  ever,  with  his  pale  face  and  pink  cheek- 
bones. His  black  hair  shone  as  if  moist;  and  his  eyes  were 
bigger  than  they  had  ever  been,  blue  like  silent  pools  and 
surrounded  by  a  mauve  zone.  His  mouth  hung  a  little 
open.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his  weariness,  he  held  her  wrist  in 
both  his  hands,  and  she  could  feel  his  fingers  searching 
for  the  opening  in  her  glove. 

"You  are  becoming  a  responsibility,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"I  shall  have  to  be  a  mother  to  you." 

A  faint  smile  came  over  his  lips. 

"A  mother?  After  all,  why  not?  Phedra.  .  .  ."  His 
eyes  fixed  on  the  grey  morning  sky  as  he  followed  his 
thought. 

The  horse  was  trotting  sharply.  The  winter  air  seemed 
to  rush  into  their  bodies.  Jack,  well  wrapped  up  as  he 
was  in  a  fur  coat,  shrank  back  against  the  warm  round- 
ness of  her  shoulder.  In  an  access  of  gentleness  she  put 
her  free  hand  in  his. 

"Dear  boy,"  she  said  softly,  bending  over  him. 

But  there  was  no  tenderness  in  Jack's  blue  eyes,  rather 
lambent  fire.  At  once  his  grasp  on  her  hand  tightened  and 
his  lips  mutely  formed  into  a  request.  Casting  a  glance 
right  and  left  she  kissed  him  quickly  on  the  mouth. 

Up  on  the  roof  their  bags  jolted  and  bumped  one  an- 
other; milk  carts  were  rattling  their  empty  cans  as  they 
returned  from  their  round;  far  away  a  drum  and  file  band 
played  an  acid  air.  They  were  going  to  Ventnor  in  pur- 
suit of  the  blanketed  sun;  and  Victoria  rejoiced,  as  they 
passed  through  Piccadilly  Circus  where  moisture  settled 
black  on  the  fountain,  to  think  that  for  three  days  she 
would  see  the  sun  radiate,  not  loom  as  a  red  guinea.  They 
passed  over  Waterloo  Bridge  at  a  foot  pace;  the  enormous 
morning  traffic  was  struggling  in  the  neck  of  the  bottle. 
The  pressure  was  increased  because  the  road  was  up  be- 
tween it  and  Waterloo  Station.  On  her  left,  over  the 
parapet,  Victoria  could  see  the  immense  desert  of  the 
Thames  swathed  in  thin  mist,  whence  emerged  in  places 
masts  and  where  massive  barges  loomed  passive  like  dere- 
licts. She  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  her  familiar 
symbol,  the  old  vagrant,  still  sat  crouching  against  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  303 

parapet  at  Westminster,  watching  rare  puffs  of  smoke 
curling  from  his  pipe  into  the  cold  air.  The  cab  emerged 
from  the  crush,  and  to  avoid  it  the  cabman  turned  into  the 
little  black  streets  which  line  the  wharf  on  the  east  side 
of  the  bridge,  then  doubled  back  towards  Waterloo 
through  Cornwall  Road.  There  they  met  again  the  stream 
of  drays  and  carts;  the  horse  went  at  a  foot  pace,  and 
Victoria  gazed  at  the  black  rows  of  houses  with  the  fear 
of  a  lost  one.  So  uniformly  ugly  were  these  apartment 
houses,  with  their  dirty  curtains,  their  unspeakable  flower- 
pots in  the  parlour  windows.  Here  and  there  cards  an- 
nouncing that  they  did  pinking  within;  further,  the  board 
of  a  sweep;  then  a  good  corner  house,  the  doctor's  prob- 
ably, with  four  steps  and  a  brass  knocker  and  a  tall  slim 
girl  on  her  hands  and  knees  washing  the  steps. 

The  cab  came  to  an  abrupt  stop.  Some  distance  ahead 
a  horse  was  down  on  the  slippery  road ;  shouts  came  from 
the  crowd  around  it.  Victoria  idly  watched  the  girl, 
swinging  her  wet  rag  from  right  to  left.  Poor  thing. 
Everything  in  her  seemed  to  cry  out  against  the  torture 
of  womanhood.  She  was  a  picture  of  dumb  resignation 
as  she  knelt  with  her  back  to  the  road.  Victoria  could  see 
her  long,  thin  arms,  her  hands  red  and  rigid  with  cold, 
her  broken-down  shoes  with  the  punctured  soles  emerging 
from  the  ragged  black  pettier  *-. 

There  was  a  little  surge  in  the  crowd.  The  girl  got  up, 
and  with  an  air  of  infinite  weariness  stretched  her  arms. 
Then  she  picked  up  the  pail  and  bucket  and  turned  to- 
wards the  street.  For  the  space  of  a  second  the  two 
women  looked  into  one  another's  faces.  Then  Victoria 
gave  a  muffled  cry  and  jumped  out  of  the  cab.  She  seized 
with  both  hands  the  girl's  bare  arms. 

"Betty!     Betty!"  she  faltered. 

A  burning  blush  covered  the  girl's  face  and  her  features 
twitched.  She  made  as  if  to  turn  away  from  the  detaining 
hands. 

"Vicky,  what  are  you  doing  .  .  .  what  does  this 
mean?"  came  Jack's  voice  from  the  cab. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Jack.     Betty,  my  poor  little  Betty. 


304  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Why  are  you  here?    Why  haven't  you  written  to  me?" 

"Leave  me  alone,"  said  Betty  hoarsely. 

"I  won't  leave  you  alone.  Betty,  tell  me,  what's  this? 
Are  you  married?" 

A  look  of  pain  came  over  the  girl's  face,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"Look  here,  Betty,  we  can't  talk  here.  Leave  the 
bucket,  come  with  me.  I'll  see  it's  all  right." 

"Oh,  I  can't  do  that.    Oh,  let  me  alone;  it's  too  late." 

"I  don't  understand  you.  It's  never  too  late.  Now  just 
get  into  the  cab  and  come  with  me." 

"I  can't.  I  must  give  notice  .  .  ."  She  looked  about 
to  weep. 

"Come  along."  Victoria  increased  the  pressure  on  the 
girl's  arms.  Jack  stood  up  in  the  cab.  He  seemed  as 
frightened  as  he  was  surprised. 

"I  say,  Vicky  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"Sit  down,  Jack,  she's  coming  with  us.  You  don't  mind 
if  we  don't  go  to  Ventnor?" 

Jack's  eyes  opened  in  astonishment,  but  he  made  no  re- 
ply. Victoria  pulled  Betty  sharply  down  the  steps. 

"Oh,  let  me  get  my  things,"  she  said  weakly. 

"No.  They'd  stop  you.  There,  get  in.  Drive  back 
to  Elm  Tree  Place,  cabman." 

Half  an  hour  later,  lying  at  full  length  on  the  boudoir 
sofa,  Betty  was  slowly  sipping  some  hot  cocoa.  There 
was  a  smile  on  her  tear-stained  face.  Victoria  was  ana- 
lysing with  horror  the  ravages  that  sorrow  had  wrought  on 
her.  She  was  pretty  still,  with  her  china  blue  eyes  and 
her  hair  like  pale  filigree  gold;  but  the  bones  seemed  to 
start  from  her  red  wrists,  so  thin  had  she  become.  Even 
the  smile  of  exhausted  content  on  her  lips  did  not  redeem 
her  emaciated  cheeks. 

"Betty,  my  poor  Betty,"  said  Victoria,  taking  her  hand. 
"What  have  they  done  to  you?" 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  as  if  in  a  dream. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  her  friend  went  on,  "what  has 
happened  to  you  since  April?" 

"Oh,  lots  of  things,  lots  of  things.  I've  had  a  hard 
time." 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  305 

"Yes,  I  see.  But  what  happened  actually?  Why  did 
you  leave  the  P.R.R.?" 

"I  had  to.    You  see,  Edward  .  .  ."  The  flush  returned. 

"Yes?" 

"Oh,  Vic,  I've  been  a  bad  girl  and  I'm  so,  so  unhappy." 
Betty  seized  her  friend's  hand  to  raise  herself  and  buried 
her  face  on  her  breast.  There  Victoria  let  her  sob,  gently 
stroking  the  golden  hair.  She  understood  already,  but 
Betty  must  not  be  questioned  yet.  Little  by  little,  Betty's 
weeping  grew  less  violent  and  confidence  burst  from  her 
pent  up  soul. 

"He  didn't  get  a  rise  at  Christmas,  so  he  said  we'd 
have  to  wait  ...  I  couldn't  bear  it  ...  it  wasn't  his 
fault.  I  couldn't  let  him  come  down  in  the  world,  a 
gentleman  ...  he  had  only  thirty  shillings  a  week." 

"Yes,  yes,  poor  little  girl." 

"We  never  meant  to  do  wrong  .  .  .  when  baby  was 
coming  he  said  he'd  marry  me  ...  I  couldn't  drag  him 
down  ...  I  ran  away." 

"Betty,  Betty,  why  didn't  you  write  to  me?" 

The  girl  looked  at  her.  She  was  beautiful  in  her 
reminiscence  of  sacrifice. 

"I  was  ashamed  ...  I  didn't  dare  ...  I  only  wanted 
to  go  where  they  didn't  know  what  I  was.  ...  I  was 
mad.  The  baby  came  too  early  and  it  died  almost  at 
once." 

"My  poor  little  girl."  Victoria  softly  stroked  the  rough 
back  of  her  hand. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  sorry  ...  it  was  a  little  girl  .  .  .  they 
don't  want  any  more  in  the  world.  Besides,  I  didn't  care 
for  anything;  I'd  lost  him  .  .  .  and  my  job.  I  couldn't 
go  back.  My  landlady  wrote  me  a  character  to  go  to 
Cornwall  Road." 

"And  there  I  found  you. 

"I  wonder  what  we  are  going  to  do  for  you,"  she  went 
on.  "Where  is  Edward  now?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  go  back;  I'm  ashamed.  .  .  ." 

"Nonsense,  you  haven't  done  anything  wrong.  He  shall 
marry  you." 


306  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

"He  would  have,"  said  Betty  a  little  coldly,  "he's 
square." 

"Yes,  I  know.  He  didn't  beg  you  very  hard,  did  he? 
However,  never  mind.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  until 
I've  made  you  happy.  Now  I'll  tuck  you  up  with  a  rug, 
and  you're  going  to  sleep  before  the  fire." 

Betty  lay  limp  and  unresisting  in  the  ministering 
hands.  The  unwonted  sensations  of  comfort,  warmth  and 
peace  soothed  her  to  sleepiness.  Besides,  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  wept  every  tear  in  her  racked  body.  Soon  her 
features  relaxed,  and  she  sank  into  profound,  almost  death- 
like slumber. 

Victoria,  meanwhile,  told  her  story  to  Jack,  who  sat  in 
the  dining-room  reading  a  novel  and  smoking  cigarettes. 
He  came  out  of  his  coma  as  Victoria  unfolded  the  tale 
of  Betty's  upbringing,  her  struggle  to  live,  then  love  the 
meteor  flashing  through  her  horizon.  His  cheeks  flushed 
and  his  mouth  quivered  as  Victoria  painted  for  him  the 
picture  of  the  girl  half  distraught,  bearing  the  burden  of 
her  shame,  unable  to  reason  or  to  foresee,  to  think  of 
anything  except  the  saving  of  a  gentleman  from  life  on 
thirty  bob  a  week. 

"Something  ought  to  be  done,"  he  said  at  length,  clos- 
ing his  book  with  novel  vivacity. 

"Yes,  but  what?" 

"I  don't  know."  His  eyes  questioned  the  wall;  they 
grew  vaguer  and  vaguer  as  his  excitement  decreased,  as  a 
ship  in  docks  sinks  further  and  further  on  her  side  while 
the  water  ebbs  away. 

"You  think  of  something,"  he  said  at  length,  picking 
up  his  book  again.  "I  don't  care  what  it  costs." 

Victoria  left  him  and  went  for  a  walk  through  the  misty 
streets  seeking  a  solution.  There  were  not  many.  She 
could  not  keep  Betty  with  her,  for  she  was  pure  though 
betrayed;  contact  with  the  irregular  would  degrade  her 
because  habit  would  induce  her  to  condone  that  which  she 
morally  condemned.  It  would  spoil  her  and  would  ulti- 
mately throw  her  into  a  life  for  which  she  was  not  fitted 
because  gentle  and  unspoiled. 

"No,"    mused    Victoria    as    she    walked,    "like    most 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  307 

women,  she  cannot  rule:  a  man  must  rule  her.  She  is  a 
reed,  not  an  oak.  All  must  come  from  man,  both  good  and 
evil.  What  man  has  done  man  must  undo." 

By  the  time  she  returned  to  Elm  Tree  Place  she  had 
made  up  her  mind.  There  was  no  hope  for  Betty  except 
in  marriage.  She  must  have  her  own  fireside;  and,  from 
what  she  had  said,  her  lover  was  no  villain.  He  was 
weak,  probably;  and,  while  he  strove  to  determine  his 
line  of  conduct,  events  had  slipped  beyond  his  control. 
Perhaps,  though,  it  was  not  fair  to  deliver  Betty  into  his 
hands  bound  and  defenceless,  bearing  the  burden  of  their 
common  imprudence.  She  was  not  fit  to  be  free,  but  she 
should  not  be  a  slave.  It  might  be  well  to  be  the  slave 
of  the  strong,  but  not  of  the  weak. 

Therefore,  Victoria  arrived  at  a  definite  solution.  She 
would  see  the  young  man;  and,  if  it  was  not  altogether 
out  of  the  question,  he  should  marry  Betty.  They  should 
have  the  little  house  at  Shepherd's  Bush,  and  Betty  should 
be  made  a  free  woman  with  a  fortune  of  five  hundred 
pounds  in  her  own  right,  enough  to  place  her  for  ever  be- 
yond sheer  want.  It  only  struck  Victoria  later  that  she 
need  not,  out  of  quixotic  generosity,  deplete  her  own  store, 
for  Holt  would  gladly  give  whatever  sum  she  named. 

"Now,  Betty,"  she  said  as  the  girl  drained  the  glass  of 
claret  which  accompanied  the  piece  of  fowl  that  com- 
posed her  lunch,  "tell  me  your  young  man's  name  and 
Anderson  &  Dromo's  address.  I'm  going  to  see  him." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  don't  do  that."  The  look  of  fear  returned 
to  the  blue  eyes. 

"No  use,  Betty,  I've  decided"  you're  going  to  be  happy. 
I  shall  see  him  to-day  at  six,  bring  him  here  to-morrow 
at  half-past  two,  as  it  happens  to  be  Saturday.  You  will 
be  married  about  the  thirtieth  of  this  month." 

"Oh,  Vic,  don't  make  me  think  of  it.  I  can't  do  it  ... 
it's  no  good  now.  Perhaps  he's  forgotten  me,  and  it's 
better  for  him." 

"I  don't  think  he's  forgotten  you,"  said  Victoria. 
"Hell  marry  you  this  month,  and  you'll  eat  your  Christ- 
mas dinner  at  Shepherd's  Bush.  Don't  be  shy,  dear— 


308  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

you're  not  going  empty  handed;  you're  going  to  have  a 
dowry  of  five  hundred  pounds." 

"Vic!  I  can't  take  it;  it  isn't  right  .  .  .  you  need  all 
you've  got  ...  you're  so  good,  but  I  don't  want  him  to 
marry  me  if  ...  if  ..  ." 

"Oh,  don't  worry,  I  sha'n't  tell  him  about  the  money 
until  he  says  yes.  Now,  no  thanks;  you're  my  baby,  be- 
sides, it's  going  to  be  a  present  from  Mr.  Holt.  Silence," 
she  repeated  as  Betty  opened  her  mouth,  "or  rather  give 
me  his  name  and  address  and  not  another  word." 

"Edward  Smith,  Salisbury  House,  but  .  .  ." 

"Enough.    Now,  dear,  don't  get  up." 

The  events  of  that  Friday  and  Saturday  formed  in 
later  days  one  of  the  sunbathed  memories  in  Victoria's 
dreary  life.  It  was  all  so  gentle,  so  full  of  sweetness  and 
irresolute  generosity.  She  remembered  everything,  the 
wait  in  the  little  dark  room  into  which  she  was  ushered 
by  an  amazed  commissionaire  who  professed  himself  will- 
ing to  break  regulations  for  her  sake  and  hand  Mr.  Smith 
a  note,  the  banging  of  her  heart  as  she  realised  her  re- 
sponsibility and  resolved  to  break  her  word  if  necessary 
and  to  buy  a  husband  for  Betty  rather  than  lose  him, 
then  the  quick  interview,  the  light  upon  the  young  man's 
face. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked  excitedly.  "Oh,  why  did  she 
run  away?  You  can't  think  what  I've  been  going 
through." 

"You  should  have  married  her,"  said  Victoria  coldly, 
though  she  was  moved  by  his  sincerity.  He  was  hand- 
some, this  young  man,  with  his  bronzed  face,  dark  eyes, 
regular  features  and  long,  dark  hair. 

"Oh,  I  would  have  at  once  if  I'd  known.  But  I  couldn't 
make  up  my  mind;  only  thirty  bob  a  week.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Victoria  softly,  "I  used  to  be  at  the 
P.R.R." 

"You?"    The  young  man  looked  at  her  incredulously. 

"Yes,  but  never  mind  me.  It's  Betty  I've  come  for. 
The  baby  is  dead.  I  found  her  cleaning  the  steps  of  a 
house  near  Waterloo." 

"My  God,"  said  the  young  man  in  low  tones.     He 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  309 

clenched  his  hands  together;  one  of  his  paper  cuff  pro- 
tectors fell  to  the  floor. 

"Will  you  marry  her  now?" 

"Yes  ...  at  once." 

"Gqod.  Sh's  had  a  hard  time,  Mr.  Smith,  and  I  don't 
say  it's  entirely  your  fault.  Now  it's  all  going  to  be  put 
square.  I'm  going  to  see  she  has  some  money  of  her 
own,  five  hundred  pounds.  That  will  help,  won't  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  too  good  to  be  true.  Why  are  you  doing  all 
this  for  us?  You're  ..." 

"Please,  please,  no  thanks.  I'm  Betty's  friend.  Let 
that  be  enough.  Will  you  come  and  see  her  to-morrow 
at  my  house?  Here's  my  card." 

On  the  last  day  of  November  these  two  were  married 
at  a  registry  office  in  the  presence  of  Victoria  and  the 
registrar's  clerk.  A  new  joy  had  settled  upon  Betty, 
whose  shy  prettiness  was  turning  into  beauty.  Victoria's 
heart  was  heavy  as  she  looked  at  the  couple,  both  so 
young  and  rapt,  setting  out  upon  the  sea  with  a  cargo  of 
glowing  dreams.  It  was  heavy  still  as  the  cab  drove  off 
carrying  them  away  for  a  brief  week-end,  which  was  all 
Anderson  and  Dromo  would  allow.  She  tasted  a  new 
delight  in  this  making  of  happiness. 

Holt  had  not  attended  the  ceremony,  for  he  felt  too 
weak.  His  interest  in  the  affair  had  been  dim,  for  he 
looked  upon  it  as  one  of  Victoria's  whims.  He  was  ceas- 
ing to  judge  as  he  ceased  to  appreciate,  so  much  was  his 
physical  weakness  gaining  upon  him;  all  his  faculty  of 
action  was  concentrated  in  the  desire  which  gnawed  at  his 
very  being.  Victoria  reminded  him  of  his  promise,  and, 
finding  his  cheque  book  for  him,  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"Five  hundred  younds,"  she  said.  "Better  make  it  out 
to  me.  It's  very  good  of  you,  Jack." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  dully,  writing  the  date  and  the 
words  "Mrs.  Ferris."  Then  he  stopped.  Concentrating 
with  an  effort  he  wrote  the  word  "five." 

"Five  .  .  .  five  .  .  ."  he  murmured.  Then  he  looked 
up  at  Victoria  with  something  like  vacuousness. 

A  wild  idea  flashed  through  her  brain.     She  must  act. 


3io  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Oh,  no,  dreadful.  Yet  freedom,  freedom.  ...  He  could 
not  understand  .  .  .  she  must  do  it. 

"Thousand,"  she  prompted  in  a  low  voice. 

"Thousand  pounds,"  went  Jack's  voice  as  he  wrote  obe- 
diently. Then,  mechanically,  reciting  the  formula  his 
father  had  taught  him:  "Five,  comma,  0,  0,  0,  dash,  O, 
dash,  O.  John  Holt." 

Victoria  put  her  hands  down  on  the  table  to  take  the 
cheque  he  had  just  torn  out.  All  her  fingers  were  tremb- 
ling with  the  terrible  excitement  of  a  slave  watching  his 
fetters  being  struck  off.  As  she  took  it  up  and  looked  at 
it,  while  the  figures  danced,  Holt's  eyes  grew  more  in- 
sistent on  her  other  hand.  Slowly  his  fingers  closed  over 
it,  raised  it  to  his  lips.  With  his  eyes  closed,  breathing  a 
little  deeper,  he  covered  her  palm  with  lingering  kisses. 

CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  endowment  of  Betty  was  soon  completed.  Ad- 
vised by  the  bank  manager  to  whom  she  confided  some- 
thing of  the  young  couple's  improvident  tendencies, 
Victoria  vested  the  money  in  a  trust  administered  by  an 
insurance  company.  The  deed  was  so  drafted  that  it 
could  not  be  changed;  the  capital  could  not  be  touched, 
except  in  the  case  of  male  offspring  who,  after  their 
mother's  death,  would  divide  it  on  their  respective  twenty- 
fifth  birthdays;  a*,  she  distrusted  her  own  sex  and  per- 
haps still  more  the  stock  from  which  the  girls  might  spring, 
she  bound  their  proportion  in  perpetuity;  failing  offspring 
she  provided  that,  following  on  his  wife's  decease  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Smith  should  receive  one-fifth  of  the  capital,  four- 
fifths  reverting  to  herself. 

Victoria  revelled  somewhat  in  the  technicalities  of  the 
deed;  every  clause  she  framed  was  a  pleasure  in  itself; 
she  turned  the  "hereinbefores"  and  the  "pre-decease  as 
aforesaids"  round  in  her  mouth  as  if  they  were  luscious 
sweets.  The  pleasure  of  it  was  not  that  of  Lady  Bounti- 
ful showering  blessings  and  feeling  the  holy  glow  of  char- 
ity penetrate  her  being.  Victoria's  satisfaction  was  more 
vixenish;  she,  the  outlaw,  the  outcast,  had  \vrested  from 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  311 

society  enough  money  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  pro- 
moting a  marriage,  converting  the  illegal  into  the  legal, 
creating  respectability.  The  gains  that  society  term  in- 
famous were  being  turned  towards  the  support  of  that 
society;  still  more,  failing  her  infamous  help,  Betty  and 
Edward  Smith  would  not  have  achieved  their  coming  to- 
gether with  the  approval  of  the  law,  their  spiritual  regen- 
eration and  a  house  at  Shepherd's  Bush. 

She  was  now  the  mistress  of  a  fortune  of  over  ten 
thousand  pounds,  a  good  half  of  which  was  due  to  her 
final  stratagem.  The  time  had  now  come  for  her  to  retire 
to  the  house  in  the  country  when  she  could  resume  her 
own  name,  piece  together  for  the  sake  of  the  county  her 
career  since  she  left  India  for  Alabama,  and  read  the  local 
agricultural  rag.  Her  plans  were  postponed,  however, 
owing  to  Holt's  state  of  health,  which  compelled  her,  out 
of  sheer  humanity,  to  take  him  to  a  sunnier  climate.  She 
dismissed  Algiers  as  being  top  far;  she  asked  Holt  where 
he  would  like  to  go  to,  but  he  merely  replied  "East  Coast," 
which  in  December  struck  her  as  being  absurd.  Finally 
she  decided  to  take  him  to  Folkestone,  as  it  was  very  near 
and  he  would  doubtless  like  to  sit  with  the  dogs  on  the 
leas. 

Folkstone  was  bright  and  sunny.  The  sting  in  the 
glowing  air  brought  fresh  colour  to  Victoria's  cheeks,  a 
deeper  brilliancy  to  her  grey  eyes;  she  felt  well;  her  back 
was  straighter;  when  a  lock  of  dark  hair  strayed  into  her 
mouth,  driven  by  the  high  wind,  it  tasted  salt  on  her  lips. 
Sometimes  she  could  have  leaped,  shouted,  for  life  was 
rushing  in  upon  her  like  a  tide.  Most  days,  however,  she 
was  quiet,  for  Holt  was  not  affected  by  the  sea.  His  list- 
lessness  was  now  such  that  he  hardly  spoke.  He  would 
walk  by  her  side  vacuously,  looking  at  his  surroundings  as 
if  he  did  not  see  them.  At  times  he  stopped,  concentrated 
with  an  effort  and  bought  a  bun  from  a  hawker  to  break 
up  for  the  dogs. 

Victoria  noticed  that  he  was  slipping,  with  ununder- 
standing  fear.  The  phenomenon  was  beyond  her. 
Though  the  guests  at  the  hotel  surrounded  her  with  an 
atmosphere  of  admiration,  Holt's  condition  began  to  oc- 


3i2  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

cupy  all  her  thoughts.  He  was  thin  now  to  the  point  of 
showing  bone  under  his  coat,  pale  and  hectic,  generally 
listless,  sometimes  wild-eyed.  He  never  read,  played  no 
games,  talked  to  nobody.  Indeed  nothing  remained  of 
him  save  the  half  physical,  half  emotional  power  of  his 
passion.  Victoria  called  in  a  doctor,  but  found  him  vague 
and  shy;  beyond  cutting  down  Holt's  cigarettes  he  pre- 
scribed nothing. 

Victoria  resigned  herself  to  the  role  of  a  nurse.  At  the 
beginning  of  January  she  noticed  that  Holt  was  using  a 
stick  to  walk.  The  sight  filled  her  with  dread.  She  watch- 
ed him  on  the  leas,  walking  slowly,  resting  the  weight  of 
his  body  on  the  staff,  stopping  now  and  then  to  look  at 
the  sea.  or  worse,  at  a  blank  wall.  A  terrible  impression 
of  weakness  emanated  from  him.  He  was  going  down 
the  hill.  One  morning  in  the  middle  of  January,  Holt  did 
not  get  up.  When  questioned  he  hardly  answered.  She 
dressed  feverishly  without  his  moving,  and  went  out  to 
find  a  doctor  herself,  for  she  was  unconsciously  afraid  of 
the  servants'  eyes.  When  she  returned  with  the  doctor 
Holt  had  not  moved ;  his  head  was  thrown  back,  his  mouth 
a  little  open,  his  face  more  waxen  than  usual. 

"Oh,  oh.  .  .  ."  Victoria  nearly  screamed,  when  Holt 
opened  his  eyes.  The  doctor  threw  back  the  bedclothes 
and  examined  his  patient.  As  Victoria  watched  him  in- 
specting Holt's  mouth,  the  inside  of  his  eyelids,  then  his 
finger  nails,  a  terror  came  upon  her  at  these  strange  rites. 
She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over  the  sea;  it 
was  choppy,  grey  and  foamy  like  a  river  in  spate.  She 
strove  to  concentrate  on  her  freedom,  but  she  could  feel 
the  figure  on  the  bed. 

"Got  any  sal  volatile?"  said  the  doctor's  voice. 

"No,  shall  I  .  .  .  ?" 

"No,  no  time  for  that,  he's  fainting;  get  me  some  salts, 
ammonia,  anything." 

Victoria  watched  him  forcing  Holt  to  breathe  the  am- 
monia she  used  to  clean  ribbons.  Holt  opened  his  eyes, 
coughed,  struggled;  tears  ran  down  his  face  as  he  inhaled 
the  acrid  fumes.  Still  he  did  not  speak.  The  doctor 
pulled  him  out  of  bed,  crossed  his  legs,  and  then  struck 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  313 

him  sharply  across  the  shin,  just  under  the  knee,  with  the 
side  of  his  hand.  Holt's  leg  hardly  moved.  The  doctor 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  pushed  him  back  into  the 
bed. 

"I  .  .  .  Mrs.  .  .  .  ?" 

"Holt." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Holt,  I'm  afraid  your  husband  is  in  a 
serious  condition.  Of  course  I  don't  say  that  with  care- 
ful feeding,  tonics,  we  can't  get  him  round,  but  it'll  be  a 
long  business,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you  see  ...  How 
long  have  you  been  married?" 

"Over  a  year,"  said  Victoria  with  an  effort. 

"Ah.  Well,  Mrs.  Holt,  it  will  be  part  of  the  cure  that 
you  leave  him  for  six  months." 

Victoria  gasped.  Why?  Why?  Could  it  be  .  .  .  ? 
The  thought  appalled  her.  Dimly  she  could  hear  the  doc- 
tor talking. 

"His  mother  ...  if  he  has  one  .  .  .  to-day  .  .  . 
phosphate  of  .  .  ." 

Then  the  doctor  was  gone.  A  telegram  had  somehow 
been  sent  to  Rawsley  Cement  Works.  Then  the  long  day, 
food  produced  on  the  initiative  of  the  hotel  servants,  the 
room  growing  darker,  night. 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  two  women  stood  face  to  face 
by  the  bed.  One  was  Victoria,  beautiful  like  a  marble 
statue,  with  raven  black  hair,  pale  lips.  The  other  a 
short,  stout  figure  with  tight  hair,  a  black  bonnet,  a  red 
face  stained  with  tears. 

"You've  killed  him,"  said  the  harsh  voice. 

Victoria  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Holt. 

"No,  no." 

"My  boy,  my  poor  boy ! "  Mrs.  Holt  was  on  her  knees 
by  the  side  of  the  motionless  figure. 

Victoria  began  to  weep,  silently  at  first,  then  noisily. 
Mrs.  Holt  started  at  the  sound,  then  jumped  to  her  feet 
with  a  cry  of  rage. 

"Stop  that  crying,"  she  commanded.  "How  dare  you? 
How  dare  you?" 

Victoria  went  on  crying,  the  sobs  choking  her. 

"A  murderess,"  Mrs.  Holt  went  on.     "You  took  my 


3i4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

boy  away;  you  corrupted  him,  ruined  him,  killed  him. 
You're  a  vile  thing;  nobody  should  touch  you,  you  .  .  ." 

Victoria  pulled  herself  together. 

"It's  not  my  fault,"  she  stumbled.    "I  didn't  know." 

"Didn't  know,"  sneered  Mrs.  Holt,  "as  if  a  woman  of 
your  class  didn't  know." 

"That's  enough,"  snarled  Victoria.  "I've  had  enough. 
Understand?  I  didn't  want  your  son.  He  wanted  me. 
That's  all  over.  He  bought  me,  and  now  you  think  the 
price  too  heavy.  I've  been  heaven  to  him  who  only  knew 
misery.  He's  not  to  be  pitied,  unless-  it  be  because  his 
mistress  hands  him  over  to  his  mother." 

"How  dare  you?"  cried  Mrs.  Holt  again,  a  break  in  her 
voice  as  she  pitied  her  outraged  motherhood. 

"It's  you  who've  killed  him;  you,  the  family,  Rawsley, 
Bethlehem,  your  moral  laws,  your  religion.  It's  you  who 
starved  him,  ground  him  down  until  he  lost  all  sense  of 
measure,  desired  nothing  but  love  and  life." 

"You  killed  him,  though,"  said  the  mother. 

"Perhaps.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  was  .  .  .  fond  of  him. 
But  how  can  I  help  it?  And  supposing  I  did?  What  of 
it?  Yes,  what  of  it?  Who  was  your  son  but  a  man?" 

"My  son?" 

"Your  son.  A  distinction,  not  a  title.  Your  son  bears 
part  of  the  responsibility  of  making  me  what  I  am.  He 
came  last,  but  he  might  have  come  first,  and  I  tell  you 
that  the  worker  of  the  eleventh  hour  is  guilty  equally  with 
the  worker  of  the  first.  Your  son  was  nothing  and  I  noth- 
ing but  pawns  in  the  game,  little  figures  which  the  so- 
ciety you're  so  proud  of  shifts  and  breaks.  He  bought  my 
womanhood;  he  contributed  to  my  degradation.  What 
else  but  degradation  did  you  offer  me?" 

Mrs.  Holt  was  weeping  now. 

"I  am  a  woman,  and  the  world  has  no  use  for  me.  Your 
society  taught  me  nothing.  Or  rather  it  taught  me  to 
dance,  to  speak  a  foreign  language  badly,  to  make  myself 
an  ornament,  a  pleasure  to  man.  Then  it  threw  me  down 
from  my  pedestal,  knowing  nothing,  without  a  profes- 
sion, a  trade,  a  friend,  or  a  penny.  And  then  your  so- 
ciety waved  before  my  eyes  the  lily-white  banner  of 
puritv,  while  it  fed  me  and  treated  me  like  a  dos:.  When 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  3*5 

I  gave  it  what  it  wanted,  for  there's  only  one !  thing jit 
wants  from  a  woman  whom  nothing  has  been  taught  but 
that  which  every  woman  knows,  then  it  covered  me  with 
gifts  A  curse  on  your  society.  A  society  of  men,  crush- 
ing, grinding  down  women,  sweating  their  labour,  starving 
their  brains*  urging  them  on  to  the  surrender  of  what 
makes  a  woman  worth  while.  Ah  ...  an  .  .  . 

Breath  failed  her.    Mrs.  Holt  was  weeping  silently  m 
her  hands  in  utter  abandonment. 

"I'm  going,"  said  Victoria  hoarsely.    She  picked  up  a 
handkerchief  and  dabbed  her  eyes. 

As  she  opened  the  door  the  figure  moved  on  the  bed 
opened  its  eyes.     Their  last  lingering  look  was  i 
woman  at  the  door. 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE  squire  of  Cumberleigh  was  not  sorry  that  "The 
Retreat"  had  found  a  tenant  at  last.    The  house  belonged 
to  him,  and  he  might  have  let  it  many  times  over;  bu 
so  conservative  and  aristocratic  was  his  disposition 
he  preferred  to  sacrifice  his  rent  rather  than  have  anyone 
who  was  undesirable  in  the  neighbourhood.    Yet  in  c 
of  the  lady  who  had  now  occupied  the  house  for  som< 
three  weeks,  though  the  strictest  enquiries  had  been  mad 
concerning  her,  both  in  Cumberleigh  and  the  surrounding 
district,  nothing  could  be  ascertained  beyond  the  scanty 
facts  that  she  was  a  widow,  well-to-do  and  had  been 
abroad  a  good  deal.     The  squire  had  seen  her  on  twc 
separate  occasions  himself  and  could  not  but  admit  that 
she  was  far  from  unprepossessing;  she  was  obviously  a 
lady   well-bred  and  educated,  and,  if  her  frock  and^hat 
had  been  a  trifle  smarter  than  those  usually  seen  in  a 
country  village,  She  had  owned  up  to  having  recently  bee 
to  Paris  to  replenish  her  wardrobe.    It  was  curious  when 
he  came  to  reflect  upon  it,  how  little  she  had  told  run- 
about herself,  and  yet,  what  was  more  curious  she  had  i 
sooner  left  him  after  the  second  visit  than  he  had  betaken 
himself  to  his  solicitor  to  get  him  to  make  out  the  lease. 
She  had  received  and  signed  it  the  following  day,  showing 


316  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

herself  remarkably  business-like,  but  not  ungenerous  when 
it  came  to  the  buying  of  the  fixtures  and  to  the  vexed 
question  of  outdoor  and  indoor  repairs. 

As  the  squire  climbed  the  hill  that  gave  upon  the  vil- 
lage from  the  marshes,  one  cold  March  evening,  he  did  not 
regret  his  decision;  for,  standing  in  front  of  "The  Re- 
treat," he  felt  bound  to  admit  that  there  was  something 
cheering  and  enlivening  in  the  fact  that  four  front  win- 
dows now  flaunted  red  curtains  and  holland  blinds,  where 
they  had  been  so  dark  and  forbidding.  In  the  lower  one 
on  the  left,  where  the  lamps  had  not  yet  been  lighted  or 
the  blinds  drawn  down,  in  the  light  of  the  dancing  fire, 
he  could  see  distinctly  a  woman's  workbox  on  a  small  in- 
laid table,  a  volume  of  songs  on  the  cottage  piano,  and,  at 
the  back  of  the  room,  a  hint  of  china  tea  cups,  glistening 
silver  and  white  napery.  Presently  a  trim  maid  came  out 
to  bolt  the  front  door,  followed  by  two  snuffling  yellow 
dogs  who  took  the  air  for  a  few  moments  in  tempestuou? 
spirits,  biting  each  other  about  the  neck  and  ears,  and 
rushing  round  in  giddy  circles  on  the  tiny  grass  plot  until, 
in  response  to  a  call  from  the  maid,  they  returned  with 
her  to  the  house.  They  were  foreigners,  evidently,  these 
dogs!  The  squire  could  not  remember  the  name  of  the 
breed,  but  he  thought  he  had  seen  one  of  the  kind  before 
in  London.  He  was  not  quite  sure  he  approved  of  foreign 
dogs;  they  were  not  so  sporting  or  reliable  as  those  of  the 
English  breeds;  still,  these  were  handsome  fellows,  well 
kept  and  (from  the  green  ribbons  that  adorned  their 
fluffy  necks)  evidently  made  much  of.  He  was  still  look- 
ing after  the  dogs  when  he  was  joined  by  the  curate  com- 
ing out  of  the  blacksmith's  cottage  opposite  and  stopping 
to  light  a  match  in  the  shelter  of  the  high  wall  of  "The 
Retreat." 

"First  pipe  I  have  had  to-day,"  said  the  new-comer  as 
he  puffed  at  it  luxuriously.  "It's  more  than  you  can  say, 
squire,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Twenty-first,  that's  more  like  it,"  said  the  squire  with 
a  laugh.  "How  is  Mrs.  Johnson?"  This  in  allusion  to 
the  curate's  call  at  the  smithy. 

"Dying.     Won't  last  the  night  out,  I  think.     She  is 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  317 

quite  unconscious.  Still  I  am  glad  I  went.  Johnson  and 
his  daughters  seemed  to  like  to  have  me  there,  though,  of 
course,  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  said  the  squire  approvingly,  for 
the  village  was  so  small  that  he  took  a  paternal  interest 
in  all  its  inhabitants.  "Any  more  news?" 

"Mrs.  Golightly  has  had  twins,  and  young  Shaw  has  en- 
listed. That's  about  all,  I  think.  Oh,  by  the  by,  I  paid 
a  call  here  to-day."  And  he  indicated  "The  Retreat." 
"It  seemed  about  time,  you  know,  and  one  mustn't  neglect 
the  new-comers." 

"Of  course  not,"  the  squire  assented  with  conviction. 
"Was  she  .  .  .  did  she  in  any  way  indicate  that  she  was 
pleased  to  see  you?" 

"She  was  very  gracious,  but  she  seemed  to  take  my 
call  quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  nice  woman  I  should 
think,  though  a  little  reserved.  However,  she  is  going 
to  rent  one  seat  in  church  if  not  more,  and  said  I  might 
put  her  name  down  for  one  or  two  little  things  I  am  in- 
terested in  at  present." 

"In  fact  you  made  hay  while  the  sun  shone.  Well, 
after  all,  why  not?  She  didn't  tell  you  anything  about 
herself,  I  suppose,  or  her  connections?" 

"No,  she  never  mentioned  them.  I  understood  or  she 
implied  she  had  been  abroad  a  good  deal  and  that  her 
husband  had  died  some  years  ago.  Still  I  really  don't 
think  we  need  worry  about  her;  the  whole  thing,  if  I  may 
say  so,  was  so  obviously  all  right,  the  house  I  mean  and 
all  its  appointments.  She  is  a  quiet  woman,  a  little  shy 
and  retiring  perhaps,  belongs  to  the  old-fashioned  school." 

"Well,  she  is  none  the  worse  for  that,"  said  the  squire 
with  a  grunt.  "We  don't  meet  many  of  that  kind  nowa- 
days. Even  the  farmers'  daughters  are  quite  ready  to 
set  you  right  whenever  they  get  a  chance.  This  modem 
education  is  a  curse,  I  have  said  so  from  the  beginning. 
Still  they  haven't  robbed  us  of  our  Church  schools  yet,  if 
that  is  any  consolation.  Coming  back  to  dine  with  me 
to-night,  Seaton?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "Very  sorry,  squire, 
it's  quite  impossible  to-night.  It  is  Friday  night,  choir 


318  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

practice,  you  know,  and  there  is  a  lantern  lecture  in  the 
mission  hall.  I  ought  to  be  there  already,  helping  Griffin 
with  the  slides." 

"All  right,  Sunday  evening  then,  at  the  usual  time," 
said  the  squire  cordially  as  the  curate  left  him,  and,  as  he 
looked  after  him,  he  criticised  him  as  a  busy  fellow,  not 
likely  to  set  the  Thames  on  fire  perhaps,  but  essentially 
the  right  man  in  the  right  place. 

His  own  progress  was  a  good  deal  slower;  not  that  he 
found  the  hill  too  steep,  for,  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years,  he 
was  perfectly  sound  of  wind  and  limb,  as  was  shown  by 
his  athletic  movements,  the  fresh  healthy  colour  on  his 
cheeks,  and  the  clear  blue  of  his  eyes,  but  rather  because 
he  seemed  loth  to  tear  himself  away  from  "The  Retreat" 
and  his  new  tenant.  Even  when  he  had  reached  the  little 
pos^-office  that  crowned  the  summit,  he  did  not  turn  off 
towards  his  own  place  till  he  had  spent  another  five  min- 
utes contemplating  the  stack  of  chimney-pots  sending  out 
thick  puffs  of  white  smoke  into  the  quiet  evening  sky,  and 
listening  attentively  to  the  cheerful  sound  of  a  tinkling 
piano,  blended  with  the  gentle  lowing  of  cattle  on  the 
marsh  below.  After  all,  he  told  himself,  he  was  very  glad 
Seaton  had  called,  for  apart  from  his  duty  as  a  clergyman 
it  was  only  a  kind  and  neighbourly  thing  to  do. 

It  was  a  pity  that  there  were  not  more  of  his  kind  in  the 
neighbourhood,  for  in  spite  of  his  own  preference  for  the 
country,  he  could  imagine  that  a  woman  coming  to  it  fresh 
from  London  at  such  a  season  might  find  it  dull  and  a 
little  depressing.  He  wondered  if  Mrs.  Menzies,  of  Hither 
Hall,  would  call  if  he  asked  her  to  do  so.  Of  course  she 
would  in  a  minute  if  he  put  it  on  personal  grounds,  but 
that  was  not  the  point.  All  he  wished  was  to  be  kind  and 
hospitable  to  a  stranger;  and  Mrs.  Menzies,  much  as  he 
respected  and  admired  her,  had  never  been  known  to  err 
on  the  side  of  tolerance,  nor  did  one  meet  in  her  drawing- 
room  anyone  whose  pedigree  would  not  bear  a  thorough 
investigation.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it,  though 
the  laws  that  governed  social  intercourse  were  on  the 
whole  excellent  and  had  to  be  kept,  there  were  here,  as 
everywhere  else  in  life,  exceptions  to  the  rule,  occasions 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  319 

when  anyone  of  a  kindly  disposition  must  feel  tempted  to 
break  them.  And  Mrs.  Menzies  was  certainly  a  little  stiff: 
witness  her  behaviour  in  the  case  of  Captain  Clinton's 
widow  and  the  fuss  she  had  made  because  the  unfortunate 
lady  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  of  her  relationship  to  the 
Eglinton  Clintons  and  had  only  vouchsafed  the  fact  that 
her  father's  people  had  been  in  trade.  Why,  it  had  taken 
weeks  if  not  months  to  clear  the  matter  up;  and  it  had 
been  very  awkward  for  everybody,  the  Eglinton  Clintons 
included,  when  the  truth  had  transpired.  No,  on  second 
thoughts  he  would  not  ask  Mrs.  Menzies  to  call ;  he  would 
far  rather  make  the  first  venture  himself  than  risk  a  snub 
for  this  lonely,  defenceless  stranger. 

He  turned  into  the  gates  of  Redland  Hall  with  a  half- 
formed  intention  of  doing  so  immediately.  He  dined  alone 
as  usual;  it  was  very  rare  that  the  dining-room  of  Red- 
land  Hall  extended  its  hospitality  to  anybody  nowadays; 
for  the  squire,  like  most  men  over  forty,  had  lost  the  habit 
of  entertaining  and  did  not  know  how  to  recover  it.  A 
bachelor  friend  spent  a  night  with  him  from  time  to  time; 
the  curate  supped  with  him  every  Sunday;  and  his  sister 
came  for  a  week  or  two  during  the  summer,  when  she  in- 
variably told  him  that  the  house  was  too  uncomfortable 
to  live  in,  and  he  ought  to  have  it  thoroughly  done  up  and 
modernised.  He  invariably  promised  to  set  about  it  im- 
mediately, with  the  full  intention  of  doing  so;  but  his 
resolution  began  to  weaken  the  day  on  which  he  saw  her 
off  at  the  station,  and  degenerated  steadily  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  year.  That  night,  however,  for  the  first 
time  for  many  months  he  made  a  voyage  of  discovery  into 
his  own  drawing-room.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it, 
Selina  was  quite  right  in  calling  it  draughty  and  uncom- 
fortable; the  gilt  French  furniture  was  shabby  and  tar- 
nished, the  Aubusson  carpet  worn,  the  wall  paper  faded, 
the  whole  room  desolate  in  its  suggestion  of  past  glory. 
He  crossed  over  to  the  enormous  grand  piano,  opened  it 
and  struck  a  yellow  key  gently  with  one  finger.  Was  he 
wrong,  he  wondered,  in  thinking  its  tone  was  lamentably 
thin  and  poor?  A  rat  scampered  and  squeaked  in  the 
wainscoting,  the  windows  rattled  in  their  loose  sashes;  he 


320  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

shut  the  piano  abruptly  and  left  the  room.  It  would  cost 
a  good  deal  to  have  it  thoroughly  done  up,  of  course;  but 
that  was  not  the  point.  Who  would  superintend  the  deco- 
rations? He  did  not  trust  his  own  taste  and  had  no  faith 
in  that  of  any  upholsterer.  Selina  would  come  and  help 
him  if  he  asked  her,  though  she  would  think  it  strange, 
for  she  had  paid  her  annual  visit  in  August,  and  it  was 
now  only  March;  besides,  if  she  brought  her  delicate  little 
girls  with  her  at  such  a  time  the  whole  house  would  be 
upset  in  arranging  for  their  comfort.  Still,  Selina  or  no, 
he  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  have  the  room  done  up 
and  to  buy  a  new  piano  immediately;  it  was  ridiculous  to 
harbour  an  instrument  which  was  merely  a  nesting  place 
for  mice.  He  returned  to  the  dining-room,  poured  him- 
self' out  a  stiff  whiskey  and  soda,  and  dozed  over  his 
Spectator  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Yet,  next  morning, 
even  in  the  unromantic  light  of  day,  he  was  surprised  to 
find  that  his  plan  of  doing  up  the  drawing-room  still  held 
good. 

He  had  intended  to  ride  into  Wetherton  that  day  to  try 
his  new  mare  across  country,  for  the  gates  were  high  in 
that  direction  and  good  enough  to  test  her  powers  as  a 
jumper.  A  glance  at  the  glistening  frost  on  the  grass  soon 
sufficed,  however,  to  tell  him  that  his  scheme  could  not  be 
carried  out;  nor  was  he  sorry  until,  having  spent  the  morn- 
ing on  his  farms  and  inspected  everything  and  everybody 
at  his  leisure,  it  occurred  to  him  with  a  desperate  sense  of 
conviction  that  there  was  still  the  afternoon  to  be  filled  in 
somehow.  About  three  he  set  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
village,  looked  in  at  the  church  and  had  a  brief  colloquy 
with  Seaton  regarding  the  new  pews  which  were  being  put 
up,  interviewed  the  postmaster,  condoled  with  the  black- 
smith upon  the  death  of  his  wife,  and  even  ventured  down 
as  far  as  the  marsh  to  see  if  the  new  carrier  who  had  taken 
the  place  of  old  Dick  Tomlinson  was  likely  to  fulfil  his 
duties  properly.  About  four  o'clock  he  found  himself 
once  more  opposite  "The  Retreat."  It  was  on  the  main 
road  certainly,  but  it  was  only  recently  that  he  had  be- 
come aware  of  its  importance  in  the  landscape.  One  could 
not  get  to  the  marsh  or  come  back  from  it  without  passing 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  321 

it.  The  windows  looked  as  trim  as  ever — trimmer  per- 
haps, for  short  muslin  curtains  interspaced  with  embroid- 
ery seemed  to  have  sprung  up  in  the  night.  They  were 
very  decorative  in  their  way;  at  the  same  time  they  quite 
shut  out  all  prospect  of  the  interior,  and  there  was  no 
workbox,  piano,  or  suggestion  of  tea  things  to  be  seen 
to-day.  The  foreign  dogs  were  snuffling  in  the  garden  as 
he  passed  the  second  time,  and  one  of  them  nosed  its  way 
through  the  iron  gate  and  ventured  a  few  yards  down  the 
road,  but  just  as  the  squire  had  made  up  his  mind  it  was 
his  duty  to  take  it  back,  it  returned  of  its  own  accord. 
He  watched  the  trim  maid  come  out  and  call  them  as  she 
had  done  the  day  before,  and  saw  them  rush  after  her, 
frolicking  round  her  skirt. 

Suddenly  he  crossed  the  road,  looked  up  and  down  to 
make  sure  there  was  no  acquaintance  within  sight,  opened 
the  iron  gate  of  "The  Retreat,"  and  passed  up  the  gravel 
pathway  into  the  porch. 

"Mrs.  Fulton  is  at  home,"  said  the  trim  maid  demurely, 
in  answer  to  his  question. 


On  the  following  pages  will  be  found 
the  complete  list  of  titles  in  "The  Mod- 
ern Library,"  including  those  published 
during  the  Fall  of  Nineteen  Hundred 
and  Nineteen.  New  titles  are  added 
in  the  Spring  and  Fall  of  every  year. 


THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 

OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 

Hand  Bound  in  Limp  Croft  Leather,  only  85c.  por  copy. 
Postage  6c.  per  copy  extra. 

TWO  years  ago,  the  Modern  Library  of  the  World's 
Best  Books  made  its  appearance  with  twelve  titles. 
It  was  immediately  recognized,  to  quote  the  New 
York  Times,  "as  filling  a  need  that  is  not  quite 
covered  by  any  other  publication  in  the  field  just  now." 
The  Dial  hastened  to  say  "The  moderns  put  their  best 
foot  forward  in  the  Modern  Library.  There  is  scarcely 
a  title  that  fails  to  awaken  interest  and  the  series  is 
doubly  welcome  at  this  time."  A  week  or  so  after  the 
publication  of  the  first  titles,  The  Independent  wrote: 
"The  Modern  Library  is  another  step  in  the  very  right 
direction  of  putting  good  books  into  inexpensive  form," 
and  the  clever  Editor  of  the  'Chicago  Daily  News,  in  a 
long  review,  concluded :  "The  Modern  Library  astonishes 
the  cynical  with  the  excellence  of  its  choice  of  titles. 
You  could  stand  before  a  stack  of  these  books,  shut 
your  eyes  and  pick  out  the  right  one  every  time." 
Despite  this  enthusiasm,  in  publishing  circles  it  was 
considered  impossible  to  continue  the  sale  of  these  at- 
tractive Hand  Bound  Limp  Croftleather  books,  printed 
in  large  clear  type  on  good  paper,  at  any  price  under 
One  Dollar  a  volume.  But  the  large  number  of  intelligent 
book  buyers,  a  much  larger  group  than  is  popularly 
supposed,  has  not  only  made  possible  the  continuation  of 
this  fine  series  at  the  low  price  of  Eighty-five  Cents  a 
volume,  but  has  enabled  us  progressively  to  make  it  a 
better  and  more  comprehensive  collection.  There  are 
now  eighty- four  titles  in  the  series  and  from  eight  to 
fifteen  new  ones  are  being  added  each  Spring  and  Fall. 
And  in  mechanical  excellence,  too,  the  books  have  been 
constantly  improved. 

Many  distinguished  American  and  foreign  authors  have 
said  that. the  .Modern  Library  is  one  of  the  most  stimu- 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 

lating  factors  in  American  intellectual  life.  Practically 
everybody  who  knows  anything  about  good  books  owns 
a  number  of  copies  and  generally  promises  himself  to> 
own  them  all.  .  .  .  One  of  the  largest  book  stores  in  the 
country  reports  that  more  copies  of  the  Modern  Library 
are  purchased  for  gifts  than  any  other  books  now  being, 
issued. 

The  sweep  of  world  events  has,  of  course,  been  a  con- 
tributing influence  to  our  success.  Purposeful  reading 
is  taking  the  place  of  miscellaneous  dabbling  in  litera- 
ture, and  the  Modern  Library  is  being  daily  recommended 
by  notable  educators  as  a  representative  library  of  mod- 
ern thought.  Many  of  our  titles  are  being  placed  on 
college  lists  for  supplementary  reading  and  they  are 
being  continuously  purchased  by  the  American 
Library  Association  for  Government  camps  and 
schools. 

The  lis-t  of  titles  omthe  following  six  pages  (together 
with  the  list  of  introductions  written  especially  for  the 
Modern  Library),  indicates  that  our  use  of  the  term 
"Modern"  does  not  necessarily  mean  written  within  the 
last  few  years.  Voltaire  is  certainly  a  modern  of  mod- 
erns, as  are  Samuel  Butler,  Francois  Villon,  Theophile 
Gautier  and  Dostoyevsky. 

Many  of  the  books  in  the  Modern  Library  are  not 
reprints,  but  are  new  books  which  cannot  be  found  in  any 
other  edition.  None  of  them  can  be  had  in  any  such 
convenient  and  attractive  form.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
find  any  other  editions  of  any  of  these  books  at  double 
the  price.  They  can  be  purchased  wherever  books  are 
sold  or  you  can  get  them  from  the  publishers. 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 


LIST  OF  TITLES 

For  convenience  in  ordering  please  use  number  at  right  of  title. 

A  MODERN  BpOK  OF  CRITICISMS  (81) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
LUDWIG  LEWISHON 

ANDREYEV,  LEONID  (1871-        ) 

The  Seven   That   Were  Hanged  and  The  Red 
Laugh    (45) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 

ATHERTON,  GERTRUDE 
Rezanov  (71) 

Introduction  by  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

BALZAC,  HONORE  DE    (1799-1850) 
Short  Stories  (40) 

BAUDELAIRE,  PIERRE  CHARLES    (1821-1867) 
His  Prose  and  Poetry  (70) 

BEARDSLEY,  THE  ART  OF  AUBREY(1872-1893) 
64  Black  and  White  Reproductions  (42) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

BEERHOHM,  MAX   (1872-        ) 
Zuleika  Dobson  (50) 

Introduction  by  FRANCIS  HACKETT 
BEST  GHOST  STORIES  (73) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  B.  REEVE 

BEST  HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  SHORT 
STORIES  (87) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 

ALEXANDER  JESSUP 
BEST   RUSSIAN  SHORT   STORIES   (18) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL  (1835-1902) 

The  Way  of  All  Flesh  (13) 
CARPENTER,  EDWARD  (1844-         ) 

Love  Coming  of  Age  (51) 

CHEKHOV,  ANTON  (1860-1904) 

Rothschild's  Fiddle  and  Thirteen  Other 
Stories  (31) 

CHESTERTON,  G.  K.  (1874-        ) 

The  Man  Who  Was  Thursday  (35) 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 

D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE  (1864-        ) 
The  Flame  of  Life  (65) 

DAUDET,  ALPHONSE  (1840-1897) 
Sapho  (85) 

In    same    volume    with    Prevost's    "Manon 
Lescaut" 

DOSTOYEVSKY,  FEDOR  (1821-1881) 
Poor  People  (10) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 

DOWSON,  ERNEST  (1867-1900) 
Poems  and  Prose  (74) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMO'NS 

DUNS  ANY,  LORD  (Edward  John  Plunkett) 

(1878-         ) 

A  Dreamer's  Tales  (34) 

Introduction  by  PADRIAC  COLUM 
Book  of  Wonder  (43) 

EVOLUTION  IN  MODERN  THOUGHT  (37) 
A  Symposium,  including  Essays  by  Haeckel, 
Thomson,  Weismann,  etc. 

FLAUBERT,  GUSTAVE  (1821-1880) 
Madame  B  ovary  (28) 

FRANCE,  ANATOLE  (1844-        ) 

The  Red  Lily  (7) 

The  Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  (22) 
Introduction  by  LAFCADIO  HEARN 
GAUTIER,  THEOPHILE  (1811-1872) 

Mile,  de  Maupin  (53) 

GEORGE,  W.  L.  (1882-        ) 
A  Bed  of  Roses  (75) 

Introduction  by  EDGAR  SALTUS 
GILBERT,  W.  S.   (1836-1911) 

The  Mikado,  The  Pirates  of  Penzance,  lolanthe, 
The  Gondoliers   (26) 

Introduction  by  CLARENCE  DAY,  JR. 

GISSING,  GEORGE  (1857-1903) 

The  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft  (46) 

Introduction  by  PAUL  ELMER  MORE 
De  GONCOURT,  E.  and  J.    (1822-1896)   (1830-1870) 
JRenee  Mauperin  (76) 

,  Introduction  by  EMILE  ZOLA 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 


GORKY,  MAXIM  (1868-        ) 

Creatures  That  Once  Were  Men  and  Four 
Other  Stories  (48) 

Introduction  by  G.  K.  CHESTERTON 

HARDY,  THOMAS  (1840-        ) 

The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge    (17) 

Introduction  by  JOYCE  KILMER 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN  (1837-        ) 
A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes  (25) 

introduction  by  ALEXANDER  HARVEY 

IBANEZ,  VICENTE  BLASCO   (1867-        ) 
The  Cabin  (69) 

Introduction  by 

JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL 

IBSEN,  HENRIK  (1828-1906) 

A  Doll's  House,  Ghosts,  An  Enemy  of  the 
People  (6);  Hedda  Gabler,  Pillars  of  Society, 
The  Master  Builder  (36) 

Introduction  by  H.  L.  MEiNCKEN 
The  Wild  Duck,  Rosmersholm,  The  League  of 
Youth  (54) 

JAMES,  HENRY  (1843-1916) 

Daisy  Miller  and  An  International  Episode  (63) 

Introduction  by  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD  (1865-        ) 
Soldiers  Three    (3) 

LATZKO,  ANDREAS  (1876-        ) 
Men  in  War  (88) 

MACY,  JOHN  (1877-        ) 

The  Spirit  of  American  Literature  (56) 

MAETERLINCK,  MAURICE  (1862- 

A  Miracle  of  St.  Antony,  Pelleas  and  Melisande, 
The  Death  of  Tintagiles,  Alladine  and  Palomides, 
Interior,  The  Intruder  (11) 

De  MAUPASSANT,  GUY  (1850-1893) 
Love  and  Other  Stories  (72) 

Edited  and  translated  with  an  Introduction  by 

MICHAEL  MONAHAN 

Mademoiselle  Fifi,  and  Twelve  Other  Stories  (8) 
Une  Vie  (57) 

Introduction  by  HENRY  JAMES 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 


MEREDITH,  GEORGE    (1828-1909) 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  (14) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

MOORE,  GEORGE  (1853-        ) 

Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  (16) 
Introduction  by  FLOYD  DELL 

NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH    (1844-1900) 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  (9) 

Introduction  by 

FRAU  FOERSTER-NIETZSCHE 
Beyond  Good  and  Evil  (20) 

Introduction  by 

WILLARD  HUNTINGTON  WRIGHT 
Genealogy  of  Morals  (62) 

NORRIS,  FRANK    (1870-1902) 
McTeague   (60) 

Introduction  by  HENRY  S.  PANCOAST 

PATER,  WALTER  (1839-1894) 
The  Renaissance  (86) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

PREVOST,  ANTOINE  FRANCOIS    (1697-1763) 
Manon  Lescaut  (85) 

In  same  volume  with  Daudet's  Sapho 

RODIN,  THE  ART  OF    (1840-1917) 

64  Black  and  White  Reproductions  (41) 

Introduction  by  LOUIS  WEINBERG 

ROOSEVELT,  THEODORE   (1858-1919) 

Selected  Addresses  and  Public  Papers  (78) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ALBERT  BUSH  NELL  HART 

SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR    (1862-        ) 

Anatol,  Living  Hours,  The  Green  Cockatoo  (32) 

Introduction  by  ASHLEY  DUKES 
Bertha  Garlan  (39) 

SCHOPENHAUER,  ARTHUR    (1738-1360) 
Studies  in  Pessimism  (12) 

Introduction  by  T.  B.  SAUNDERS 

SHAW,  G.  B.   (1856-         ) 

An  Unsocial  Socialist  (15) 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 


SINCLAIR,  MAY 
The  Belfry  (68) 

STEPHENS,  JAMES 
Mary,  Mary  (30) 

Introduction  by  PADRIAiCCOLUM 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  LOUIS   (1850-1894V 
Treasure  Island  (4) 

STIRNER,  MAX  (Johann  Caspar  Schmidt) 
(1806-1856) 

The  Ego  and  His  Own  (49) 

STRINDBERG,  AUGUST    (1849-1912) 

Married  (2) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 
Miss  Julie,  The  Creditor,  The  Stronger  Woman, 

Motherly  Love,  Paria,  Simoon  (52) 

SUDERMANN,  HERMANN  (1857-        ) 
Dame  Care  (33) 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON   CHARLES 

(1837-1909) 

Poems  (23) 

Introduction  by  ERNEST  RHYS 

THOMPSON,  FRANCIS    (1859-1907) 
Complete  Poems  (38) 

TOLSTOY,  LEO   (1828-1910) 

Redemption  and  Two  Other  Plays  (77) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  HOPKINS 
The  Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitcb  and  Four  Other 
Stories  (64) 

TRAUBEL,  HOR> 
Chants  Comnr 
Special    Ir 
edition 

TURGENEV,  P 
Fathers  and 

Introduc 
Smoke   (80) 

Introdui 

VILLON,  FR/ 
Poems  (58' 

Introduc 


•' 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 


VOLTAIRE,  (FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET) 

(1694-1778) 

Candide   (47) 

Introduction  by  PHILIP  LITTELL 

WELLS,  H.  G.  (1866-        ) 
The  War  in  the  Air  (5) 

New  Preface  by  H.  G.  Wells  for  this  edition 
Ann  Veronica  (27) 

WILDE,  OSCAR    (1856-1900) 
Dorian  Gray  (1) 
Poems  (19) 

Fairy  Tales  and  Poems  in  Prose  (61) 
Salome,  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest, 
Lady  Windermere's  Fan  (83) 

Introduction  by  EDGAR  SALTUS 
An  Ideal  Husband,  A  Woman  of  No 
Importance   (84) 

WILSON,  WOODROW   (1856-        ) 
Selected  Addresses  and  Public  Papers  (55) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ALBERT  BUSHNELL  HART 

WOMAN  QUESTION,  THE  (59) 

A  Symposium,  including  Essays  by  Ellen  Key, 
Havelock  Ellis,  G.  Lowes  Dickinson,  etc. 

Edited  by  T.<R.  SMITH 

YEATS  W  "u""-esses  a°d  Public  *  * 
T  .  -ted  with  an  Introduction  by 
In°ALBERT  BUSHNELL  HART 

.fNITZLER,  ARTHUR    (1862-         , 
Anatol,  Living  Hours,  The  Green  C< 
Introduction  by  ASHLEY  DUKES 
Bertha  Garlan  (39) 

SCHOPENHAUER,  ARTHUR    (173S-U 
Studies  in  Pessimism  (12) 

Introduction  by  T.  B.  SAUNDERS 

SHAW,  G.  B.  (1856-        ) 

An  Unsocial  Socialist  (15) 


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